The Heir to Casterly Rock
by MovinTarget666
Summary: Tywin suspected his cupbearer would try to escape, so he arranged for men to lay in wait for her. He was correct, and now the time has come for the truth.
1. Failed Flight

**The Heir to Casterly Rock**

Who was the girl?

The question plagued Tywin Lannister as he rode from Harrenhall and had been an interesting mystery while he had been there; a girl smart enough to play a boy. Even if she'd been killed, she would have successfully avoided the rapists that made up the Mountain's men.

 _Anyone can be killed._

Certainty, that's what he thought. She had the certainty that death would come for them all, but not in the way that a knight would. A knight saw glory in death, a legacy all on its own. She saw death as the end, the conclusion of a life, and that it was a terrible tragedy whenever it happened. He'd felt the same, when Johanna had died on the birthing bed.

Tyrion never appreciated the gift she had given him, ending the story that made up their time together for a stunted little monster. He was a layabout as a child, and he was even worse as an adult. Would that Tywin could have set the little beast in the forest and left him to the wolves. But he could never do that, Tyrion was Johanna's son. Tyrion was his son.

Just as a traitorous part of him wished that the girl had been his daughter, more so than Cersei to some degree. His sole daughter was a spiteful woman, filled with his bile and none of the kindness that was her mother. She was his daughter, but there were times he had to wonder if she was her mother's.

It did no use to think of his children, each such terrible disappointments in some way. It was when thinking of them that he wished he had been a Stark. That was a great house that appreciated family and preserving the legacy. The Starks had stood for thousands of years as the pinnacle of honor.

It would be a shame when he had to destroy them. He was already in contact with dissatisfied parties within the Stark boy's army. Who was left of their house now? They had a madwoman as their matriarch, the boy king who would not see the knife until it plunged into his heart, and the girl still safely locked in Maegor's Holdfast.

Sansa Stark would be the key to the North, after the Greyjoys had murdered the other two boys and Cersei had lost the second daughter. He had never felt more shame than when he read Tyrion's letter to that effect. They had three hostages, and his daughter had allowed one to escape and his moronic grandson to kill another.

Eddard Stark had not needed to die, and because he had they were embroiled in a war that spelled the end of the Seven Kingdoms if Tywin did not play everything to perfection. It was a war on three fronts, with the Starks, Greyjoys, and Baratheon forces all arranged against him. He was already marching to save King's Landing, thanks to Stannis and his damned incest scheme.

What bastard accused a man's wife of cuckolding with her own brother? It was truly a depraved accusation, and said more of Stannis than Tywin's own children. It wasn't to say that Tywin wasn't sure that the children were somebody other than Robert's. His daughter had hated her husband, and she was stupid enough to mate with a man without his coloring. Now her bastards sat on the throne, but they were Lannister bastards.

He would look after them, just as he did his brother Gerion's bastard. Though in this case he could not treat them as they deserved to be treated. They were lesser, but that could not be known, or the war would be lost with a word.

"M'lord," He turns his attention to the entrance to his tent, raising an eyebrow. The man, a lieutenant in his army, lowborn, bows his head, "The men you assigned to guard the rear have returned. They have three prisoners."

"A girl and two boys?" He asks.

"Yes, m'lord," the man nods, and though he fights it a lecherous grin grows across his lips, "What shall I have the men do with them?"

"You will bring them here, unharmed and unmolested," Tywin tells his soldier, and watches as the man's face falls, "And if I learn the girl in particular was harmed, I will have the men responsible castrated before they are hanged."

The terror in his eyes gratifies Tywin. It was not often that he gave threats so overtly, but if his time at Harrenhal had taught him anything, it was that he should not try to mince words. The girl had been a rare catch, and if she were indeed one of the new prisoners, she would prove herself truly unique in his eyes.

It would not do to let something useful go to waste.

"They… they were harmed... m'lord," The man whimpers, "Ser Maryn said that they resisted, killed a man, even."

"And their current condition?" Tywin was willing to forgive a few bruises, but if they were completely useless he would be very displeased.

"Banged up, m'lord. Worst to have it is the girl, she put up more a fight, had to get a good whack in the head to stop her struggling."

Tywin growls, and he points back out the tent flap, and the soldier flees.

He had known many men to die of seemingly small head injuries, and if the girl died of the blow he would never learn how she managed to escape. He would not be able to use her as his cupbearer anymore, and he would never learn who she was. If she truly was from a Noble house, as he had long suspected, she would prove very useful. He wanted to be right about her.

He had to wait, though, because it would be at least an hour before she was in front of him again. In the meantime, he set about his tent. The girl was smart, and she was Northern. Any way she could help her own would be used, including trying to steal secrets. She hadn't managed at Harrenhal, but that was probably self preservation. Now she was in his camp, and would know that with the constant movement of his armies she could make her escape.

It would be in her friends that he found his advantage. It was where he often did, nobody ever expected their greatest allies to turn on them. It would be unfortunate to break the smith boy, if that was who she brought. But the fat one? A good cook, but no great loss if he needed to hang from the noose.

It was a simple matter to move the carved figures of houses so that anything gleamed from the map on his table would be completely incorrect. After that, it was just tidying up. He did not enjoy servants in his personal chambers, even on the march. They would build his tent and strike it, but that was it.

He poured himself some watered down wine and sat in one of his more comfortable chairs to wait. He was getting on in years, and he wouldn't be sitting in the Iron Throne at this age. Let his grandson sit there, he would arrange for a nice seat to the side so he might enjoy some comfort while he ruled what kingdoms he could maintain.

His tent flap opened slightly, and a guard poked his head in. Before the man can say anything, Tywin waves his hand and the head disappears.

A few seconds later the flap is pulled fully open and the girl is herded in, along with her two companions. He was right, his cupbearer had taken the smith and the fat cook. He notes that their heads are bowed, but hers remains raised. Her will had not waned, even with the large cut across her cheek and an eye blackening from the blow she'd taken to the temple.

"Girl."

"My Lord."

"You've abandoned the safety of Harrenhal, not a very smart move."

"I think anywhere the Mountain isn't is safer than where he is."

"True, Gregor has always been a singular brute."

"He has a reputation."

"He does," Tywin takes a sip of his wine, watching her steadily. She does not flinch, not like her companions. They are the lowborn, he knows, and he wondered how loyal they were to their lady. He sets his goblet down and looks levelly at the girl, "I think, now that we are far from Harrenhal, we can drop what pretense is left."

"Pretense, my lord?"

"Yes, pretense," He gives her an even look, "I didn't care for your name while within the walls of the castle because it did not matter, but now my armies are marching. I need to know whether I am to spare your life or let you swing from the noose."

"You'd kill me?"

"Indeed," He can see that she probably expected worse, and he is shocked to see that she would gladly accept it rather than the alternative. She knew he would not allow his men to have their way with her. She'd probably already heard the warning he'd given from the lieutenant when she was collected.

He looks into the eyes of the young girl, and he sees that she has accepted this, and asks her, "Do you want to die?"

"No, my lord," She tells him, then she swallows and tells him, "What do we say to the god of death? Not today."

He raises an eyebrow, "You've met Braavosi, now? You truly are an interesting child."

"My father hired Syrio Forel to teach me dancing, he thought it would distract me while he worked."

Tywin's jaw works behind closed lips, thinking. The former First Sword of Braavos, one of the most renown fighters in the world in his prime. The man had been something special, ten years ago, and when he had moved to King's Landing it had been one of the few interesting pieces of news his spies had given him.

King's Landing.

She had been in King's Landing, learning sword work from the former First Sword of Braavos, and was captured with a train of recruits for the Night's Watch that were heading North. She claimed to be from a Northern House, but he had assumed that she had joined the train further into the Riverlands.

Now he was seeing the answer laid out in front of him. He narrows his eyes, and he finally demands the truth, "What is your name?"

"Arya Stark, my lord," she tells him, and now she does looks down.

Tywin was no stranger to regret, but what poked at the remains of his conscious here was more than that. He was feeling melancholy, discontent, angry. But he was not feeling these things for himself, he was feeling them for the girl's sake.

Arya Stark was standing right in front of him, had served him meals, and shared in talks he would not have indulged any of his children with. She hated him, he knew, but not as much as his daughter and grandson.

He looks to her companions, they had exchanged terrified looks. They were not shocked, though. They'd known exactly who she was from the start and worked to hide her from his men. The man he had guarding them all looked shocked.

"You," The guard snaps to attention and looks at him, "Find them a tent and put them in it. Guard it and do not let them leave, they are not to be harmed, I need to speak alone with Lady Stark."

"Yes, my lord," The man grabs both and drags them from the tent, leaving the old man and the young girl alone.

Tywin barks out a brief laugh, "A stone mason that died for loyalty. You are clever, girl."

"Thank you, my lord," She smiles.

"Well, now we know that we're of equal station I can't be having you serve me wine, can we?" He asks.

"We could pretend, my lord?" She asks, and it is more to hope that he can forget that she's told him who she is.

He ignores the plee and pours her a cup of wine before refilling his own, "Sit."

She sits, and waits. He raises an eyebrow at her and she takes the cup to drink.

As she drinks, he looks for the Stark features. She has them in abundance and he has to wonder how he'd missed them so spectacularly. The only sound for a few seconds is the greedy gulping as the girl enjoys what may be the first drink she's had for a day, then the tink as the cup is set down.

"How did you escape Harrenhal?" He asks her.

She looks at him, then down. He can see her play through what he might do to her if she refuses to answer, then he sees the point where she thinks of what he might do to her companions, and she gulps. There are times that it pays to have a reputation as fearsome as his, and those times are always.

"There was a man with us, a prisoner set to join the Night's Watch," She tells him, "He was in a prison wagon with two murderers. When your men set the camp on fire, I freed him."

"Why?" Now he's curious, why save a random man, especially that one. He knew why some men were kept in carts by the Night's Watch, the most dangerous and the most deranged.

"He said he could fight," She tells him.

He nods, a good enough excuse in the heat of the moment. He waves for her to continue.

"Next I saw him, he was at Harrenhal, one of your men," Now that was concerning, he would need to ask the man's name and get a description. Though that might not be very useful, men so often looked the same with three weeks of marching on their faces, "He told me that he owed me a debt, and that we owed three names."

"To who?"

"The red god, I didn't know what he meant."

He narrows his eyes, and cool certainty enters him, "Go on."

"I gave him two names," She tells him, "And you were going to be the third."

He nods, a smart decision, assuming that two of the strange deaths that had occurred in Harrenhal were her doing. He wasn't sure what the man was, not yet.

"You had already left, so I gave the man his own name, Jaqen H'ghar."

"And did he kill himself?"

"I promised to un-name him if he helped me and my friends escape."

"I see, smart of you."

He leans back in his chair and takes a sip of his wine.

"What's going to happen to me now?"

Arya Stark was lost, he could see it. She was terrified of every moment of every day, but the terror was blunted. Her fear was slowly being eroded to a dull consistency. If she was always afraid, why feel fear? He pitied her, in this moment, but not enough to let her run free.

"I will be taking you back to King's Landing, where you will be my honored guest," She nods in acceptance, which he was glad for. The next thing, though, he doubted she would be happy about, "Once in the Capital, we will begin arrangements for your wedding to my grandson."

"What!?" the chair crashes to the ground, and if there were any silverware on the table she would probably have grabbed it.

Guards rush into the tent, but a glare from him has them halting. A few seconds of frozen silence pass before they back out of the tent and he turns his attention back to her.

She takes a gulp, "Kill me."

"Excuse me?"

"Kill me. I'd rather be dead than have to marry Joffrey."

"I have more than one grandson," Tywin tells her.

"What?" This is said far more calmly.

"As far as I know, Tommen is near your age and has no match set for him."

Arya blinks at him, "What?"

"Stop repeating yourself, you sound like a simpleton."

"Sorry, my lord."

"Better."

"Why do you want to marry me to Tommen, my lord?"

"Because we need the North," He tells her. Her eyes narrow and he carries on, "Your brother will be defeated, the Northern armies will be routed. He will be dead, by the end of it. The Starks have no male heirs left, only girls."

"Sansa is already marrying Joffrey, isn't she?" There was some disgust there, likely a bitter sibling rivalry. Just as Cersei and Tyrion had, or him and his own brother Tygett.

"No, an arrangement has been made with the Tyrells," He tells her, "My grandson is setting your sister aside and marrying their girl."

"Oh."

He raises an eyebrow and notes, "You don't seem so scared of marrying my youngest grandson."

"I can stand Tommen," She tells him, "He's nice, bit stupid, but nice."

"And you're not afraid of telling me my grandson is a simpleton."

"I think you already know they both are," her lips twitch up in a small smirk, "Why else would we be here?"

"Why indeed," He frowns.

The war had been the folly of morons, they could both see it. She may not know, but the girl clumps her own mother in with his fool of a grandson. Catelyn Stark had helped start the war with her kidnapping of Tyrion, escalating the precarious situation that already existed between their families.

Then Joffrey had ruined any chance of reconciliation. They could have released Eddard Stark in exchange for Jaime, forced a peace accord of some kind. They could have found a way to stop the war from happening. Let the Northerners stay in the North. Kept the elder girl as a hostage so she could wed the king and bind the realm together whether the Starks wanted it to or not.

They could have fought Stannis together, forced a resolution. There was never a need for war, until idiots decided they wanted blood. Aerys had been that kind of idiot. The Mountain was that kind of idiot, one on his leash. Now Joffrey was that kind of idiot, and Tywin's last war was going to be in defense of a gods damned moron.

He hopes that not all the Great Houses will be destroyed in this conflict. The Arryns were nearly gone, the Starks would soon be destroyed, the Baratheons would be whittled down to a young girl with Greyscale, the Martells had so far been the only Kingdom to stay out of the war. Marriage had kept them at bay, and if the Mountain displeased him enough, the big man's head would do as well.

Now he had to make sure his family survived. The Lannisters would prevail, they always did. Casterly Rock would stand now and forever, King's Landing was theirs by marriage, and soon Winterfell and Highgarden would be much the same. The entire kingdom would be bound by the ties that his family made, if they could make it through the war without Cersei and Joffrey fucking it up.

Tywin takes another sip of wine, and looks to the girl. Arya Stark watches him, and he watches her. Both wonder what the future will hold, now the truth is out.


	2. The Battle of the Blackwater

**The Heir to Casterly Rock 2**

 **\- The Battle of the Blackwater -**

The battle was in full swing when the Lannister army joined. They washed over the Baratheon forces with the strength of a tidal wave, spilling through the city and destroying the men of the flaming stag. Street by street they killed their way towards the Red Keep, and unlike the last time they had marched on the capital: they refrained from raping and pillaging.

It would not do to have the people hate their saviors.

Tywin rode his steed through the carnage, his own sword bloodied and his armor stained. He'd only claimed one kill this battle, a Stormlander that managed to break through his guards. He'd died easily enough with a blade through his eye.

The horse under him, a well-trained beast, trots easily through the main thoroughfare of the city towards Maegor's Holdfast. It winds its way past many scenes that would be the climax of stories told throughout the inns of the realm for years to come, but he was not seeking a climax to the war here.

Stannis was already pulling his men back, the horns sounding a retreat. Victory was their, but the war still had other fronts. He would have to think of a way to deal with the Ironborn, and ravens to send to Harrenhal. First, though, would be declaring his victory to his daughter.

He already had his men searching the battlefield for his grandson, sure that the boy would at least be watching the carnage from the ramparts. It would not do to have the King out of the fight, and his son had made sure he would be there.

"My lord," He turns to the girl. Arya Stark had been riding beside him, an honored guest to witness the fight. She looks around them and asks, "Why would he sack a city he wants for himself?"

Him being Stannis, naturally. Tywin smirks at her, "Men are greedy, destructive creatures, girl. Stannis may well have ordered the city spared, but his men would not have followed that order."

"Why aren't yours attacking people, then?" She asks, eyes narrowed, "They didn't mind slaughtering my families household when I was on the run."

"The difference is in their mindset," Tywin tells her, and makes a mental note to reprimand Cersei for being so foolish as to kill the Stark's household. Who was she having serve the Stark girl she still had, whores? He continues, "My men are of a mind to save the city, and Stannis's men are of the mind to take it. Preservation against destruction, good against evil, men find such dichotomies useful in setting themselves apart."

"So… they aren't killing everyone like they do in the Riverlands because they want to be heroes?"

"Very good."

"But everyone already knows they Lannisters are the evil side of the war, why try to change that now?" The girl challenges.

He inhales sharply, "Careful, girl, you speak of my House."

"I know."

"House Lannister is not evil, girl," He growls, "I do what I must to preserve the legacy of my family."

"And what about my family's legacy?" She demands, "My father was murdered by your grandson. And he's a poo."

"A what?"

"A poo, a… a piece of shit," She bows her head at that, embarrassed. He realizes once more that he is talking to a small child, even if she had been forced to deal with a great deal of violence in a short span of time.

He almost smiles, but it would not be appropriate for their current relationship, so instead he tells her, "You are speaking of the king. Mind your tongue, child."

"Or he'll cut it out," She nods. He doesn't though.

Illyn Payne came to mind, a man who had been a loyal knight and a good soldier in his forces. And then Aerys's spies had heard the man say something, and his tongue had been cut out. It was an act that only the Mad King could have done for so petty a reason. The man hadn't been speaking treason, only making a jape with friends.

The girl was sure that his grandson would stoop just as low.

By the gods, how had things gone so far? Tyrion sent reports, naturally, and they were disturbing reports on the nature of the King and how little control anyone truly had over him. He was clearly an inept ruler, but to be a rabid dog along the lines of Clegane?

This would not do well, and it was a good thing he was finally in the capital. He would take things in hand once more.

"Hold!"

The call comes from behind him, and he turns his attention to the back of his guard. Two men approach, one in Lannister colors and the other a simple brown coat covering chainmail. Pulling his horse to a stop, he looks more closely at them.

One was his son's sellsword, the new captain of the city watch, and the other was the dwarf's squire, carrying a large bundle, "Let them through."

His guards part and the sellsword leads the squire through. Tywin catches sight of the bundle more fully, and he sees that it is his youngest son with a cloth bandage pressed against his face. The sellsword nods his head, "Yer lordship, I'm happy to report that with your help the battle is won."

Tywin nods, "I'd already known that, man. Why is my son injured?"

"One of the Kingsguard tried to kill him," the squire says.

"He was foolish enough to get so close to Stannis?" Tywin demands.

"No, my lord," Podrick Payne, that was his name, "One of King Joffrey's Kingsguard."

Tywin's lips purse into a line. His grandson had tried to assassinate Tyrion in the middle of a battle against enemy forces. A member of his family had tried to murder one of its own. Not even he would dare resort to kinslaying, "How did he survive?"

"I stabbed the knight through the neck, my lord," the boy tells him, "With a spear, his back was turned."

"And which was it?"

"Ser Mandon Moore."

Damn, one of the few competent swordsmen remaining on the Kingsguard as well. How could the boy be this foolish? How could Cersei allow such stupidity? Had she not taught him anything of what he had taught her?

"Is he alright?" Tywin's eyes, as well as his son's men, turn to Arya Stark. The girl looks between them, "What?"

"Who're you?" The sellsword asks. Bronn, Tywin remembers after some thought, that was his name.

"Who she is does not matter," Tywin notes, turning his gaze to the man, "What does, is why you were not guarding my son?"

"He had me fire the arrow into the water," Bronn tells him, "Meant I was a fair distance off when the ships exploded and the fight started."

Tywin nods. If this was true, the man had been invaluable to their victory and deserved some reward. The boy as well, for his success at killing as renown a knight as a member of the Kingsguard while saving his lord.

"Guards, horses," Tywin orders.

Two guards immediately slide from their steeds. They hand the reins to Bronn and Podrick, the younger of which passes Tyrion over before climbing up and taking him back. Once the sellsword mounts as well, they set off once more, heading towards the Red Keep.

 **\- The Red Keep -**

Tywin's men part for him easily enough, opening the way for him to stride into the throne room. It is empty aside from his men and the two atop the Iron Throne, his daughter and youngest grandson.

"The battle is over," He declares magnanimously, "We have won!"

He hears the barest tinkling of shattering glass as she stands, pulling her son up with her. She hugs the boy, stroking the lads face. He strides towards her, stopping at the end of the stairs, "Daughter."

"Father."

"We have much to discuss."

"I believe that we do," She agrees.

Turning to his men, he orders, "Have my son's effects moved from the Chamber of the Hand and into quarters further down in the tower. Then call for Maester Pycelle to treat his injuries."

Bronn and Podrick, who had followed after him with the girl, nod and carry their lord off.

"He survived," Cersei tries to sound relieved, but he can hear the dismay and disgust on her lips.

"He does," Tywin turns to glare at her, "And he will continue to do so. He is my son."

"He's a little beast that doesn't know respect," She growls back.

"R-" Arya almost starts to speak, but Tywin's head snaps to her and she stops. Her head drops and her fists ball in impotent rage.

Cersei turns to glare at the girl as well and her eyes widen, "the missing Stark girl."

Arya's eyes raise to glare at the queen, but she has learnt to hold her tongue. It looks to be taking more effort with each passing second, though.

"Yes," Tywin tells the Queen Regent, "She found her way to me in Harrenhal, and acted as my cupbearer until her true identity was revealed."

"Baelish met you in Harrenhal, did he reveal her?" Cersei asks, curious.

Tywin shakes his head, "The girl is avoided showing him her face, and only on her escape was she forced to identify herself so as to avoid death."

"A clever girl, then."

"Clever enough to have done more to impress me in this conflict than you have," Tywin tells her, and she can see the anger, the disappointment, and the shame in his eyes.

Cersei's lips twist into a snarl, "I did all I could to hold the realm together!"

Tywin waves a hand, and the guards that had remained at the doors pull back, leaving only the two adults and two children in the vast chamber. The lord growls in turn, his anger billowing as he stalks up the steps.

"You did nothing to halt Lord Stark's execution, arranged for his entire household to be slaughtered, ordered babes be murdered in their mother's arms," Tywin stops right in front of her, " After that, you did nothing to quell the growing unease within the city, feasting while the people starved."

Cersei looks to want to start objecting, but Tywin raises a hand, not done.

"You let your son incite a riot while you were in the middle of the streets, even allowed him to take pot shots at peasants with a crossbow! He beat our one bargaining chip with the Starks!" Tywin does not should, but his dark reprimand may as well have been a bellowing roar for the effect it was having.

There may have been a world in which he was satisfied, or at least not so angry at his daughter's failings. But in that world he had not stopped to talk with the girl and been caught up by his son's men. In that world he did not know that his daughter was willing to stoop to kinslaying. And in a world like that, what depravities wasn't she willing to perform?

It was in this world that he existed, where the words of his most disappointing son had first been dismissed but now needed to be taken as holy writ, that he existed. It was in this world that the sister of his current greatest enemy was a more acceptable daughter than the one he had by blood.

"You attempted to arrange the murder of my son, your brother," He tells her, his anger freezing in his stomach, cool disgust pausing the roiling rage within.

Cersei glares at him, but wisely does not say anymore. He would forgive her failings, for now. He did the same with all his children, even Tyrion. They disappointed him, always, and they would likely continue to do so until the day he died.

Jaime, his shining son, was a vain fool of a knight. He thought that glory was on the battlefield, in guarding whatever wastrel sat upon the Iron Throne. He didn't think in the long term or plan ahead. He lived so closely in the moment that he forgot that there could be consequences for his actions.

Cersei, his beautiful daughter, was so much like him and yet was not at the same time. She carried his intelligence, his wrath, his anger, and she had her mother's intelligence. As dearly as he had loved her, Johanna was not as intelligent as he was. She had been kind, loving, and caring in all the ways that he was not, a truly great woman to know and love. Cersei had lost any resemblance to her mother when Tyrion had killed her.

Tyrion was the greatest disappointment of all, because Tywin knew that he was the best of his children. The wasteful little dwarf had his intelligence and his mother's heart, but it was encapsulated in the layabout that was Tyrion Lannister. He was a smug little drunk that knew he was smarter than anyone else, but lacked the tact needed to put that fact to good use. Tywin, privately, blamed himself for this failing. He had needed to teach Tyrion a harsh lesson on whores early in his youth and allowed his hatred for the dwarf to take it too far.

He takes a breath, "Tomorrow, your son will name me Hand of the King, he will set aside Sansa Stark and betroth himself to Margaery Tyrell."

Cersei narrows her eyes; she had not been consulted on this new arrangement. It had been made on the march, after all, and there had been no time to waste ravens on the capital. She dared not object, though.

"Tommen," Tywin looks down, and sees the boy has begun cowering behind his mother.

"Tommen has no part in the affairs of the kingdom," Cersei finally objects, the care of her youngest son bringing forth the will to stand up to her father.

The Lord of Casterly Rock turns his eyes back to her, "He does now. With Joffrey setting aside the Stark girl, we will have no connection to the North when Robb Stark and his mother are killed."

"So you intend to wed her to my son?" She demands to know.

"Not the elder girl, no," He tells her.

Cersei's eyes are drawn to the bottom of the stairs, where Arya Stark still glares at her with more hate than a twelve year old child should be able to muster, "no."

"Yes."

"I refuse to allow my son to be wed to that rabid wolf!"

"You have no choice in the matter," Tywin tells her, his growl returning."

"I am Tommen's mother!"

"And I am the Hand of the King and your father."

"No!"

"Tommen," The boy looks at him past his mother's skirts, "Go speak with Lady Stark, she is to be your wife and you should get to know her."

The boy looks up at his mother, and his mother looks at Tywin. The glare she receives finally cows her, "Go on, sweetling."

The boy quietly steps out from behind his mother and starts walking down the steps. Tywin and Cersei watch him reach the bottom and stop in front of the girl. The two stare at each other for a few seconds, then Tommen says quietly, "Hello."

Arya looks the boy over, and Tywin can see hatred warring with indifference within her. Tommen had committed no crime against her and her family, just as she had committed none before the war began.

Finally, she replies, "Hello."

"I'm glad you're not dead," the young prince tells her, and she smiles faintly.

"I'm glad I'm not dead, too."

"I'm sorry about Bran and Rickon."

"So am I."

"Do you want to go play with Ser Pounce?"

"Joffrey hasn't killed it yet?"

"I keep him safe!"

Arya looks up at Tywin, and the lord nods. She looks back to Tommen and tells him, "Okay, it's been a while since I played with cats."

Tommen smiles, takes her hand, and begins to drag her from the room, "We can say hello to Lady Sansa, too! She wanted to stay in her rooms for the battle but Joffrey made her give him a kiss good luck, so she's around. All of us can play together."

"Sansa," Tywin can hear Arya exhale an almost relieved sigh as she says her sister's name, and she starts walking at an even pace with the prince.

Once they depart, a guard starting to follow them as soon as they exit the throne room, Tywin turns his eyes back to his daughter. There was much more that needed to be said between them, but the time would come later. He takes a breath and tells her, "We must find the king and offer him our congratulations."

"Yes," Cersei agrees, "The first of many battles won by my brave Joffrey."

Tywin scoffs and descends the stairs to the throne, Cersei following after, "I saw nothing that told me a great victory was being won by your boy."

"But if he was not victorious, how could you have routed Stannis so quickly?"

"Stannis was routed because Tyrion's sellsword ignited Wildfire in the Blackwater and Lord Baelish was able to make an arrangement between our Houses."

Cersei snorts, "Tyrion? Ha! The up-jumped little imp stole my plot and changed it, he did nothing but act as the parasite he is."

"It was your idea to use the wildfire, was it?"

"Yes it was."

"And how were you going to get it to Stannis's fleet?"

"Catapults."

Tywin stops and turns to her, "The city lacks siege weapons, how would you have made your catapults?"

"There is an entire wood outside our gates."

"And who would have built them?"

"The peasants."

"The same peasants that tore apart the High Septon? That feasted upon his corpse because you have been unable to provide them with anything to eat?"

"They would have been made to work."

"And you would have faced another riot," Tywin growls, disappointed once again, "Power means little if the smallfolk are willing rise up against you! They will obey me because I saved them and have brought them food, but had Stannis come even a month from now and I were still embroiled in the west, the peasants would have thrown the gates open and invited him in."

"They wouldn't dare."

Tywin stops, forcing Cersei to do so as well. He stares at his daughter, not quite sure who he was speaking with. It looked like his daughter, but when last they'd spoken face to face she had been far cleverer than this, though still not as clever as she believed. It was as though the absolute power she had taken when Stark was imprisoned had poisoned her. It had seeped into her thoughts and taken all sense from her actions. There was no rhyme or reason to her follies, and there were many.

He would need to find a way to bring her back, because the woman now before him was less his daughter and more a political opponent to be crushed. He loved his golden twins, as disappointing as they both were, and he would not lose them to their own arrogance and stupidity.

"We will have a long talk about your thoughts on the smallfolk, very soon," He tells her, then sets off once more for his army at the entrance to the Red Keep.

Outside, his army cheered at his reappearance. He gives them a nod, they'd done good work, "Men, find your commanders, they will arrange for lodgings either within the city or in camp outside the walls. Commanders, assign teams of men to search the city for any stragglers from Stannis's assault. Kill them if you find them, but leave the commonfolk in peace. We are the saviors of the day, let's not change that!"

Another cheer and he turns his attention to Kevan, standing at the head of his army, "The King?"

"He has been located," Kevan nods, then looks to Cersei, "Her grace ordered the King be brought back to the Red Keep to ensure his safety in the middle of the battle."

Tywin turns his glare back to his daughter, then after a moment he takes a breath and asks, "If the King was not on the front, who led the charge against Stannis on the beach?"

"Tyrion," Kevan tells him, and Tywin glares at the smug glint in his brother's eye. The man had always had more faith in the dwarf than he, and it looked like his faith was being rewarded. Then Kevan turns a glare to Cersei and adds, "He would still be there, if a member of the Kingsguard had not turned against him."

"Ser Mandon, I know. His squire and sellsword met me on the way to the Red Keep," Tywin tells him, "Where is the King now?"

"He is in the guard house," Kevan tells him, "From what Lancel says, he was willing to stay on the field, but answered his mother's call."

"Then why is he there, instead of here?" Tywin asks.

"Ser Meryn Trant pulled escorted him there, and then had to defend him from Baratheon soldiers," Kevan tells him.

Tywin nods, glad that his grandson was not a complete disappointment. He takes a breath, "Let us go and meet the king.

He, Kevan, and Cersei made their way out of the Red Keep a ways, ending their walk just outside the castle walls. The guard house of the Goldcloaks was far more opulent than when he had been Hand. He raises an eyebrow at it, wondering what called for the city guards to dwell within such extravagance. If he were to make a casual guess, this was but one of the reasons Tyrion had sent Janos Slynt, former commander of the Goldcloaks, to the Wall.

Inside, the King stood at the end of a round table. He was staring at a map of King's Landing laid out on it, only looking up when Tywin clears his throat. He smiles grimly, "Lord Tywin?"

"King Joffrey," Tywin nods. Looking to the map, he asks, "What has your interest, your grace?"

"Where will my uncle's men flee?" Joffrey asks, "Your forces have them surrounded by land, and their ships have already cast off. So where will the traitors flee?"

"I have men hunting them as we speak, they will be put to the sword on sight," Tywin tells the boy, and watches as he smiles.

"Good," Joffrey nods, "We have much we need to do so we can repair the realm. Now that Stannis has been routed, he'll run like the coward he is."

"Stannis is no coward, your grace," Tywin corrects, "he is a pragmatist."

"The difference?"

"He will return when he has the men and the resources."

"He will not be able to claim either, he's lost most of his men, the Tyrells are ours, and Storm's End is open for taking."

"We cannot go to Storm's End."

"No, but I'm sure the Tyrells will be happy to go on our behalf," Joffrey chuckles,.

"You would give them your father's ancestral home?" Tywin asks, eyebrow raised.

"Not for long," Joffrey shakes his head, "It is Tommen's after all. He can buy it back when he's old enough."

Tywin narrows his eyes, "I think we should concern ourselves with the enemy that still remains, rather than things to come; at least for now. Stannis will return, Robb Stark is to our North, and it is only a matter of time before the Ironborn attack."

"They already have," Joffrey smirks, "They've attacked the North."

"Yes, but they've not held back from the rest of the Kingdoms in the past, why would they do so now?"

"Perhaps we can offer them something worth their continued loyalty," Joffrey muses.

"Such as?"

"The Ironborn once ruled most of the Riverlands, before the time of the Seven Kingdoms," the King smiles, "It seems fitting to give it back to them if they swear their fealty to me."

Tywin frowns, old hatred swelling within him. The Ironborn had burnt his fleets less than a decade ago, he was not going to give them anything but the sword, "We can discuss who will receive what boon when the war is done."

"Yes, now isn't the time," Joffrey agrees. He smiles widely, "Now you are here, grandfather, my rein as King is secure."

"As secure as I can make it."

Joffrey nods, "Tell me, Lord Tywin, what have you done to secure my realm?"


	3. Reunions, Happy and Mad

**The Heir to Casterly Rock 3**

 **\- The Chamber of the Hand -**

Dawn broke over King's Landing slowly, creeping through the cracks left by the Baratheon army in their assault. It was a quiet day, and were it not for the people trying to piece their lives back together once more it would have seemed like a city of ghosts.

The Red Keep was far less quiet, though. The King was screaming at his grandfather, "You expect me to allow that little cunt off!?"

Tywin Lannister glares at the boy. Joffrey had seemed so promising not four hours ago, and already he had shattered what little faith Tywin had in him, "Yes, your grace, I do."

"She is a traitorous little bitch that struck me!" Joffrey exclaims, and he waves a hand in front of Tywin's face. The Hand raises an eyebrow, turning his eyes away from the flailing limb to glare at the boy.

He stops his waving, and pulls back the hand to rub at a small scar on it, "She set her beast on me! If she hadn't sent it off I would have its head, and I will have hers!"

"You will not," Tywin tells him, and now he stands. When Tywin Lannister stands it is an impressive sight, being a tall man who hadn't lost the broadness of youth to the tremors of age. He stood taller than Joffrey, and leaned down to tell the boy, "You have lost us the North, twice over now you are marrying Margaery Tyrell."

"You arranged that!"

"I did, because you had already lost four of the Seven Kingdoms, and only your acting Hand managed to save you from losing a fifth."

"The imp?"

"Indeed, betrothing Myrcella to Tristane Martell was a stroke of genius I had not expected of my son," Tywin leans back, "But now, because we required the Reach, we have no way to join the Kingdoms to the North once Robb Stark is dead."

"We give the North to a loyal House, one that would never betray us!"

"They would not have betrayed you, had you kept Ned Stark's head on his shoulders," Tywin turns away from the boy and stalks to the balcony, "It was the pinnacle of stupidity."

Joffrey leaps to his feet as well, "You will not speak to me that way!"

Tywin turns and gives the boy a deadly glare, "Would you rather I speak to you as your advisors have done before now? Spilling lies and pleasantries into your ears?"

"Lies?"

"If it were not for the fact that you and Robb Stark have the same political acumen, we would have lost this war already," Tywin informs him.

"What?" Joffrey growls, standing up straighter.

"Robb Stark plans to marry some Essosi whore he bedded, breaking an arrangement with the Freys," Tywin tells him, "Along with that, there is growing unrest in his armies and soon events will unfold and his army will crumble."

"Then he is far worse than me at politics, doesn't it?" Joffrey asks.

"It means his advisors are not politically versed or capable," Tywin tells the boy, "They are Northmen and angry Riverlords. The boy promises vengeance, but those of his bannermen unsatisfied will quickly abandon his cause. Your advisors, on the other hand, are well versed in ignoring your idiocy."

Joffrey's eyes widen in rage, and his glare hardens.

"Do not look at me as if expecting an apology," Tywin tells the boy, "I had thought you and your mother were more intelligent. I dared not believe the reports my son sent to me, but now I must."

"The imp is a lying halfwit!"

"He is my son," Tywin turns fully to the boy, "And he was so adept at his task as Hand that either you or your mother attempted to assassinate him in the middle of a pivotal battle!"

"He was useless as Hand," Joffrey refutes, "And he has struck the king more than once! That will not stand."

"It has and it will," Tywin tells the boy, "In an hour's time you will present me with the badge of my office, you will set aside the Stark girl, and you will accept Margaery Tyrell as your new bride to be. After that, you will announce the betrothal between your brother and Arya Stark."

"And if I refuse?"

"It will change nothing," Tywin tells him.

Joffrey growls, impudent in his rage.

 **\- The Throne Room -**

Event proceed as they had been arranged, and as Margaery Tyrell joins Joffrey in front of the throne, the boy king smiles to the crowd. He looks first to the right, then to the left, and then he makes the mistake of looking at Tywin atop his white steed.

The horse had been a nice touch, in Arya's opinion. It had brought him level with the blond shit on the throne. It was a reminder that he was the savior and that he had all the real power in the room. It would have been really impressive if Arya hadn't had to walk in after the horse.

She'd almost stepped on a pile of shit that it had laid out right in front of the doors. Thankfully she was easily able to step over it in her breeches, nobody having thought to give her a dress yet. Beside her, little Tommen fidgeted nervously.

The blond boy was nice, which was good, and a little stupid. She'd told Lord Tywin as much when he told her she would be marrying him when the time came. Thank the old gods it meant that he never wanted to fight her on anything, yet. He'd probably grow a spine, just with who his mother was.

That bitch looked downright miserable, and Arya couldn't be happier about it. The aging hag had ordered Lady killed, then her family's servants. If there was one person that Arya wanted dead as much as the ass on the throne, it was Cersei Lannister.

"My Lord Hand, I see you have brought a new addition to the court," Arya's eyes return to the throne, and she frowns at Joffrey. The bastard looked just as unhappy with her, good.

"Indeed I have, your grace," Tywin waves a hand, and Arya steps away from Tommen and next to the horse, "I present Lady Arya Stark, recovered from the wilderness after having fled the capital in the confusion that was the start of this war."

A fancy way to say she escaped the people that murdered her father. Now she was back with them, though, so she had to use the lessons that Harrenhal had taught her not to get killed.

There is a gasp from far to her left, and Arya's eyes find her sister's. Sansa, looking as defeated as Arya, stared at her sister in horror. The younger Stark smiles at her, trying to put on a brave face for the elder girl, but it does nothing but bring tears to the redheads eyes.

What had been the last thing she said to Sansa? They hadn't seen each other in so long, and they had hated each other when last they had. Now times were different, and old differences were just the petty differences of stupid children.

"Arya Stark," Joffrey rumbles, "It is so good to welcome you into court once more."

Not trusting herself to speak, Arya grits her teeth and bows her head.

"It occurs to me," the king muses theatrically, "That now I've set aside Lady Stark for my new bride, our father's plan to join our Houses is almost certainly dead."

Arya, again, has to fight the urge to snap back. It is clear that the bastard is looking to get a rise out of her. He a reason to have her head cut off and she wouldn't give him one.

"I don't think my father would like that," Joffrey continues once it's clear she isn't going to respond, "He wanted the Houses of Stark and Baratheon to come together, and regardless of the current war being waged by your traitor brother, I would not break my father's heart even in death."

 _Didn't stop you from killing his best friend, did it?_ The internal fight was growing harder and harder. If she didn't get out of here soon, she'd be liable to try and run up the stairs and try and kill Joffrey with his own throne.

"In light of the love my father had for your family, I will tie our Houses together," Joffrey tells her and the court in general, "You will wed my brother, the Prince Tommen. Brother, step forward and embrace your new betrothed."

Whispers broke out all around them, and Arya squeezed her eyes shut as hard as she could. Taking a deep breath in, she lets it out and turns her attention to the young prince, eyes opening. He smiled at her, and she forced a smile in turn.

If it were up to her, she'd kill his mother and brother, burn this damned city to the ground, and go home. But it wasn't up to her, nothing ever was. She would wed this inbred little idiot while his bastard brother ruled the kingdoms strait to the ground. It would be horrible, and all she could really hope was that she managed to be the one to slip a knife into his throat before somebody else did.

Arya took Tommen's hand and let him lead her to Cersei Lannister. The matriarch stands stiffly, and they stare at each other as Arya approaches. Their gazes only break because Arya has to turn around to glare at Joffrey as she keeps talking. He prattled on and on, declaring all manner of things that Arya knew he had no intention of going through with.

 _Peace and prosperity:_ She'd seen his idea of peace, and how it'd work for the little people.

 _The downfall of the Starks:_ They weren't dead yet, and if she had anything to say about it they would live far longer than he would.

 _The unification of the realm:_ okay, that one might be possible if she managed to kill him.

Honestly, it was probably safe to say that had Joffrey not been such a cunt, her father would have let him become the king. Father had always been an honorable man, but he was practical as well, or at least sentimental. That didn't help her mood, though, and angry tears well in her eyes.

"That's right, you little cunt, you lose," the whisper is barely audible, but she hears it all the same. Cersei is taunting her.

"I haven't lost," She replies, just as quietly.

"And how is that?"

"I am still alive."

"We'll see how long that lasts."

Arya turns her eyes to look at the Lannister Queen, and the woman smiles sweetly at her. Arya turns back to the rest of the court, and notes that Lord Tywin is gazing at the two of them. The old man had become something of a friend, in the last months. As much a friend as a man you're terrified of can be, at least.

She was able to talk back to him, at least. That wasn't something she knew many people had the nerve to do. She wondered if the spiteful woman beside her had ever had that nerve? Had she been like herself, or Sansa? It was a question she felt needed to be asked, because there was no way that Cersei Lannister hadn't talked back to her father.

So why was she so special?

It might be that she impressed him early. Their first encounter had been him paying her a compliment for her ingenuity. It hadn't been her idea to start, but it had always been her intention to keep the charade up for as long as possible. Now it was broken, she was a captive of the Lannister far more than she had been when she'd been just a cupbearer, and the queen wanted her head.

It wouldn't do her any good to just act smart, anymore. She had to play smart as well. She was stuck in King's Landing until she could find an escape, and she would have to be very clever about it. She couldn't rely on a second Yoren, and she couldn't rely on Sansa.

Just looking at her sister was painful, because it was clear that the elder girl was hurt. Arya forced herself not to think the worst of her and think the pain was because she was being set aside. Sansa had been a captive of the Lannisters for months, almost a year! She couldn't still think of Joffrey the same way. So Arya chose to believe that the look of pained horror on Sansa's face was because now both sisters were in the clutches of the Lannisters.

It would have been better if she and Tommen had found her the night before. It would have made this encounter bearable for them both. Now they both had to remain stoic in the face of adversaries that would gladly lap up their tears.

 **\- Sansa's Bedchamber -**

They embraced when finally they were able to be alone together.

"I thought you were dead," Sansa whispers into her neck.

Arya clings all the more tightly, "I thought so too. I saw you fall after… father."

"You were there."

"Yes."

"I'm so sorry, Arya," Sansa pulls back and her hands hold Arya's head, "I did this, I made all of this happen!"

"What?"

"I told the queen we were leaving, I sent that letter to Robb, I couldn't make Joffrey spare father!" tears well in Sansa's eyes and begin to drip down her cheeks as she lists the crimes she feels she's commited.

Arya pulls her into a hug, "no."

"What?"

"No!" She repeats, "We were stupid little girls."

"You didn't want to be a little girl, though," Sansa complains, pulling back, "You wanted to fight, and you managed to escape."

"And I was caught quick enough it didn't really matter," Arya refutes.

"But you still escaped," Sansa tells her, "I was so useless that I didn't get a hallway away from where Septa Mordane died."

"Gods, they did kill everyone, didn't they?" Arya asks.

Sansa pulls her tight, and the two sisters take what little solace they can from each other's company.

 **\- Tyrion's New Quarters -**

Tyrion Lannister drifted back into the world after a time of peaceful nothingness. Last he recalled, he'd been slashed across the face by Ser Mandon. The man hadn't even tried to say anything before he made the attempt.

It seemed that he wasn't dead, though.

Opening his eyes was an exercise in effort. When they were finally there, he could tell his next few moments would be very uncomfortable. Standing at the foot of his bed was Tywin Lannister.

"Father, nice to see you."

"Everything in your ravens was true," Tywin doesn't bother to reply to the greeting and instead gets right to the point.

Tyrion blinks, and winces at the pain that flares across his face. He doesn't reply to his father, instead asking, "The battle?"

"A victory," Tywin assures him, "Thanks, according to the latest tavern songs, to you."

"Oh, I was merely one small piece," Tyrion jokes.

"It was you who arranged the plot with Wildfire, your sellsword that ignited the flames, your chain that blocked escape," Tywin narrows his eyes, "You who led the countercharge at the shore while your nephew fled the field."

"I would think Joffrey not spread that around," Tyrion muses, "It would give him a bad image."

"The king has already given himself a bad image," Tywin snorts, "and I have ensured the true facts of the battle have been spread."

"Why?" Tyrion has to ask. There had to be something that happened to make it so Tywin supported him so fully. The Lord of Casterly Rock hated him and would see him hang before he ever gave anything to his son, so what had changed since but a week ago.

"Your sellsword and squire informed me who struck the blow against you."

"Then you know it was…"

"Ser Mandon, yes."

"And that informed you that I did not lie in my updates?" Tyrion asks.

"If your sister, or the king, were willing to fall so low as to kill the commander of the city's defenses in the middle of a battle? Yes."

"You didn't believe them before?"

"I did not."

"Why?"

"Because you have hated your sister for your entire life, and she has hated you. It would not surprise me to know that you exaggerated her failings, as you have done in the past."

"I have never exaggerated," Tyrion objects, "Cersei has always been a spiteful woman, and you've just refused to see it."

Tywin growls, low in his throat. It's not often that Tyrion manages to see his father out of sorts, and the most recent time had been when word reached them of Jaime's capture.

"Where have I been moved?" Tyrion asks, the room he was in was definitely not the one he had been sleeping in during his time as hand.

"You in an apartment at the base of the Tower of the Hand," Tywin tells him.

"Ah, I'd worried you would put me in a storage cupboard."

"Do not tempt me."

Tyrion's eyes widen and he looks in astonishment at his father, sure that he'd just heard the man tell a joke, "Are there any other developments I should know so I am not surprised when I can move properly?"

"Several," Tywin agrees, "Your squire will inform you."

Twin stalks out of the room as Tyrion's squire takes his place.

The Hand of the King frowns as he strides through the castle, thinking on all that would need doing in the near future. He would have to consult with Olena Tyrell on how best to control his idiotic grandson. While her own offspring may not be as sadistic, he was just as halfwited.

He would need to enlist the granddaughter, clearly an intelligent girl. She would hopefully be able to stifle his more public urges, or at least create a good public face. It was a system that he and his own wife had devised; she had been kind and indulgent while he was hard and unyielding. It had been a happy time for the Westerlands, but those days were long past.

Now he regretted not attempting to remarry and bear new children. If he'd allowed himself that possibility he could have given Casterly Rock to a proper heir and have retired. Now he had to deal with idiots and the game of thrones until the Stark girl popped out a good heir to the Rock.

Until then he had to plan, strategize, and seed the disloyalty of Northern Houses.


	4. The King S--t

**The Heir to Casterly Rock 4**

 **\- The Office of the Hand -**

"So you plan on giving Casterly Rock to Tommen," Tyrion frowns, his face twitching in pain as it adjusts, "Not a terrible choice."

"You expected me to give it to you?" Tywin retorts.

"I did," Tyrion's eyes lock with his and Tywin can see the dwarf fighting the urge to reach for the wine on the table, "But experience has taught me well. I expected as much."

"Good," Tywin stands, rising slowly until he towers over his son. Then he pours two glasses of wine and slides one to the former Hand of the King, "I expect you to serve him well."

Tyrion stares at the glass, blinks slowly, then takes it and drinks deeply. He lets out a sigh when he finishes and notes, "Of course, you know how much I love my family."

Tywin snorts, "Lying doesn't suit you."

"I've always thought I was a skilled liar."

"You've failed, as always, to keep secrets from me," Tywin retorts, and he can see his son realize what he meant.

The Stark girl had one servant, a foreign woman brought to her by Tyrion of all people. It wasn't outside the realm of possibility that the dwarf was acting out of the kindness of his heart, but really he was just trying to be clever. The servant was the same whore Tyrion had taken a shine to while they were on the march.

"What happens now?" Tyrion asks, setting his wine down. The elder Lannister noted that there was still half a glass remaining, so he knew this matter was being taken seriously.

"Nothing," He replies, "For all of your disappointments, I cannot adequately discipline you."

Mismatched eyes widen and lock with his, "What has happened?"

"Cersei and the boy tried to have you killed."

"Cersei tries to have me killed at least once a year, why is this new?"

Tywin's eye twitches and he truly hopes the insolent wastrel was jesting. Recent events made him question that, however, so he kept it in mind as he told the boy, "Regardless, they attempted to do so while this city was in the middle of pitched battle and you were leading their armies. They have proven that they lack the guile and intelligence to deal in either war or politics. You, on the other hand, have managed to keep a city on the edge of revolt from taking the plunge into chaos."

Tyrion remains silent, though Tywin certainly expects a witty rejoinder. It was a rare day when Tywin chose to praise any of his children, and even rarer still when he laid that praise on his youngest. The imp didn't know what to make of this change in circumstance, and it seemed that he was trying not to lose the change to take as much praise as possible.

"You are no longer the Hand of the King," Tywin continues, "But that does not mean you cannot make use of your skills. I am naming you the Master of Laws."

"Why?"

"Because at this moment you are the hero of King's Landing," Tywin tells him. It was true, too, the elder Lion had seen to that.

"So I am to keep the city under control while you wage the war?"

Tywin nods, "Joffrey failed to name one, leaving the position vacant and expecting the law within the city to maintain itself. You did well, then, more as the Master of Law than as Hand."

"So you are giving me the rank I have proven myself able to maintain?"

"I am," Tywin nods, "Do not fail me."

Tyrion frowns, then downs the last of his wine, "I will speak with Bronn and begin making arrangements to move into my new offices."

 **\- The Tyrell Quarters -**

Ollena Tyrell waited, listening to the gossip of her granddaughter's courtiers. The silly little chits had nothing better to do than talk. They talked about everything and nothing, touching subjects of intrigue but drifting into banality the next second.

They would bring up the King, and then talk about how gallant he looked upon the throne. They would mention the younger Stark girl before laughing about the trousers she wore. Over and over they almost gained her attention, and then they would lose it.

She could tell that Margaery was just as bored as she, but her beautiful rose still had the excitement of youth. Ollena had lost patience for chattering sycophants decades ago, but her granddaughter was still able to maintain the pretense.

"Oh, enough," She finally snaps, and all conversation ends in an instant, "We keep coming back to the Stark girls, let's have them here, then!"

"An excellent idea, grandmother!" Margaery smiles, then waves at a servant, "Please extend our invitation to the Ladies Sansa and Arya that we would like to have lunch with them."

The servant bows and departs. By Ollena's count, they should have around twenty minutes to wait before the servant reached the two rooms remaining to the Starks and brought the girls back. They wouldn't refuse, couldn't refuse. Margaery was inviting them and she was to be the queen now.

Sansa, the one that lost her future crown, held the Queen of Thorns' interest because she could give vital details on how the King thought. Knowing what kind of man the monarch was would help his future queen take the reins in their relationship.

Arya, the younger sister, had survived out in the war torn Riverlands and had Tywin Lannister's respect. She was also to wed Tommen, so it would not be in their best interest to arrange for an accident to befall the king before a babe was in Margaery's belly. It might be possible to break the engagement between Tommen and Arya if Joffrey were to be unfortunately killed, but it was clear that Tywin Lannister wanted the girl to bear him heirs. She'd seen more interest in the girl's future than she had seen him place in any of his own children.

Perhaps it was some form of respect, or maybe that he could control a hostage far more than he could a rebellious daughter. But if the looks that the dowager queen and the girl had exchanged the day before explained anything, it was that they hated each other with unrivaled passion. She never seen such vitriolic hate from a ten year old girl before, and she probably never would have seen another instance of it had she not watched the girl turn her gaze to the king.

Hatred was too soft a word for what the girl felt for King Joffrey. It was as though the gates of all seven hells had opened in her eyes a black loathing had reached out at the boy king. It couldn't touch him, but the sheer murder in those eyes promised vengeance in the darkest manner.

It made her very glad she was not the girl's enemy and already had several plans on how to kill the boy. Should she include the girl in those plans, no doubt she would have the heir to Casterly Rock as an ally to the Tyrells for the rest of her granddaughter's days.

Pondering these matters kept her well distracted from the foolish chits as the girls return to their conversation while they wait. It came almost as a shock when the servant returned and announced the arrival of the Starks.

In they entered. The elder looked regal in the way most highborn girls are taught, standing straight with her eyes aimed directly ahead of her. It did much to disguise the sorrow Ollena could see beaten into her frame, and her dress hid the bruises that resulted. The younger girl entered behind her sister like a wild animal, caught and let loose within the walls of a keep. Her son had done something like that when he was a boy: he'd caught a wild cat, and the poor creature was terrified of making the wrong move lest it attract the attention of large predators. It had ended up killing a dog in its efforts to escape, and mace had been fearful of the species ever since.

Now she stared at a captured creature of a different sort, and one with far more malice than a simple cat. They had a wolf, and never had she felt more like the old adage was true; if the younger was a wolf that bared her soul, could the elder be a wolf in sheep's clothing, awaiting the chance to strike?

"Lady Sansa, Lady Arya, welcome!" Margaery smiles and stands, "we were about to start lunch, would you please join us?"

"Of course, my lady," Sansa bows her head and steps up to the table, then pauses, "Would it be begging too much if I could sit next to my sister?"

"Of course not!" Margaery smiles, then looks to one of her companions imploringly. With well-practiced ease, the girl moves from one chair to another, opening a space for both Starks to sit side by side.

The girls slide into their chairs, sitting on the edge of their seats. Both look ready to leap up and act; the elder to flee and the younger to attack.

They sit in silence while the servants bring them food, only a small meal but enough to water the mouth. Ollena watches as Sansa takes her time with her meal, eating as though savoring every bite. She eats as one would a last meal, begging the food in front of her to be the greatest meal she'd ever had. Arya eats as though she expects somebody to try and steal the bread out from under her.

"Girl," all of the girls look up at her, forcing her to roll her eyes and she points at Arya Stark with her fork, "Where did you learn your manners?"

"Night's Watch," A simple answer, quick and sweet. It also told Ollena plenty.

"Then were they the ones that smuggled you out of the city?"

Arya frowns, realizing her mistake as well. To give the child credit, though, she doesn't try to backtrack and come up with some outlandish lie, "Yes. Yoren cut m'hair and had me be a boy."

"Smart man," She notes, "If he was taking you north, why did you enter the city with the new Hand?"

"Lannisters killed him, looking for my friend Gendry," Arya frowns, "killed him too."

The other girls stare at the bleak child. The Stark's drab clothing, something of a half dress used halfheartedly to hide the breeches she still wore, made the pale face and dark eyes seem ghostly in the shadowed light of the chamber.

Margaery asks, "Why were they looking for your friend?"

"He didn't know," Arya shrugs, "doesn't matter now, he's dead."

"And you were the only survivor?"

"No, most got taken to Harrenhall," She tells them, then frowns, "You don't really care. You want to know why I'm marrying Tommen."

"We all do, child," Ollena tells her, but ads, "That doesn't stop us being interested in the rest of your story, though."

"I was Lord Tywin's cupbearer."

"You mean to say you served him his food and wine, attended him while he entertained guests, and he never noticed?" Ollena snorts.

Arya smirks, the first real expression on her face since they'd met. The expression softens the black pools in her eyes, turning them from the blackest of pits to more an empty hearth: warmth had dwelt there once, but no more.

She does tell them, "Sansa had it worse."

"Arya," Sansa hisses, though it comes out more as a pained whine than anything truly threatening.

Ollena raises an eyebrow, exchanges a look with her Margaery, then declares, "Ladies, I think my granddaughter and I would like to get to know our new family, alone."

It was as overt a dismissal as Ollena ever gave, and the girls are quick to hop to her command. Arya and Sansa watch warily as they are quickly left alone at the table, and in less than a minute the table that had seated ten now only held four.

"You want to ask about Joffrey," Arya frowns in distaste.

"We do," Ollena smiles thinly, "But not of you, your opinion is written all over your face."

Arya drops her frown, her face going slack.

"Good, but a little too late for that, child," Ollena chuckles, "If you aim to keep up the façade as well as your sister can, you need to practice more."

"What façade, Lady Tyrell?" Sansa asks.

"The one you wear now," Ollena tells her, "The one that tells me I'll not get a straight answer from you until you trust me completely."

Arya narrows her eyes, and glares between Ollena and Margaery. The soon to be queen sighs, "Grandmother, I fear you are scaring them."

"Oh, far from it," Ollena disagrees, then points at Arya, "That one is wondering how best to arrange my death." Then she points at Sansa, "And that one is trying to think of a way to escape this room without the servants telling the queen how horrid her life is."

"Grandmother, enough," Margaery sighs, and then leans back in her chair looking at the tense Stark girls, "You must forgive her, she is known as the Queen of Thorns for a reason."

"There is nothing to forgive, my lady," Sansa tells her.

"Please, call me Margaery," is the reply, "We are to be sisters, after a fashion."

Sansa blinks at her, confused. Arya is the one to explain, "She's marrying King shit and I'm marrying Tommen."

"King shit," Ollena smirks, and the younger Stark winces as she realizes she'd let that slip, "An imaginative nickname."

"Great King Joffrey was struck by a cowpie during a riot," Sansa explains, "The people have taken to calling him that."

"And how do you know that, my dear?"

"I have few companions," Sansa tells her, "But those I have wish me cheerful. Lord Tyrion told me that story himself after he awoke from the battle."

"You are close with Tyrion Lannister?" Ollena raises an eyebrow, "I'd have thought you would not wish to speak with many of them."

"He tries to make me smile," Sansa tells her.

Margaery frowns, "Did the king not try to make you smile?"

Sansa doesn't reply, at least not honestly, "My beloved Joffrey told many witty stories."

"Witty by your reckoning, or his?" Ollena asks.

"She thought he was clever," Arya tells her, "Then he cut our father's head off."

"He was not so entertaining after that," Sansa closes her eyes, "He made me walk the ramparts with him."

Margaery and Ollena share a look. That told them more than enough of Joffrey's character, to parade the girl past her father's head and the head of all of the people she had come to the capital with. It was common knowledge that when Lord Stark had tried to take the throne from Joffrey the Queen had ordered the entire Stark household murdered.

It was but one of the many crimes she and her son were reviled for within the city. Some of that hatred had faded with the saving of the city, but where a total victory would have abolished the hatred the fact that the king had left the field in the hands of the Imp of all people left at least a taste of bile in most throats.

What followed after this first revelation was a very twisted conversation in which Margaery and Ollena learned a great deal about their new king, and the Queen of Thorns had to decide if she wanted to take Petyr Baelish up on his offer, regardless of the fact that it might lose her family the throne.

 **\- The King's Chamber -**

"He mocks me! In front of the entire court!" Joffrey growls, pacing in front of his bed.

Cersei, sitting in the corner, frowns, "He does not mock you, sweetling, he doesn't know you."

"He paraded that little cunt in front of me and demanded I allow that disgusting harpy to marry my miserable little brother!" Joffrey retorts, "That is my right! Mine or yours!"

"Yes, love," Cersei takes a sip of her wine, "But my father is not to be trifled with, you may be king, but he is your hand."

"And I could take that title from him with a word," Joffrey refutes.

"My father would take his men, his gold, and his support from the city, if you did," Cersei tells him, standing and stepping over to him. She cups his face in her hands, "My love, you must be smart, like I know you can."

"How?"

"I saw you, my lovely boy, stand before your grandfather and seem more a king than your father ever did," She tells him, "You had plans, and strategies, and you thought them through."

"And Tywin Lannister shot them down."

"He did," She agrees, "But you are king. My father has much power, but even he could control Aerys before your father and Jon Arryn could not control your father. A king does as he pleases."

"He couldn't stop the Mad King?" Joffrey barks out a laugh, pulling back from his mother, "He could not control a rabbid dog! He won't hold sway on me!"

"So what shall you do?" Cersei asks, watching as her son takes the bearing of a true king.

Joffrey pulls himself straight, stands tall, and stalks out onto the balcony of his chamber. His mother follows and stays a few feet back, waiting for him to be the man she knew he could be. Finally he turns, "I told grandfather that the Greyjoys could be a powerful ally, and they shall be."

"How, my love?"

"Balon Greyjoy's son sacked Winterfell and killed two Starks, I wonder how eager he is to bed a third," Joffrey chuckles to himself.

"You would give them Sansa?"

"She is useless to us, now," Joffrey waves away her trepidation, "As much as I wish the vicious little cunt dead, Arya Stark will fulfil her role and bear Tommen heirs. I am glad he is getting Casterly Rock, I look forward to giving my own son Storm's End."

"So you will offer them Sansa Stark and what else?" She asks

"The Riverlands," Joffrey smiles, "Who cares for swamp and river? The ironborn have been reaving those waters for thousands of years, and I think they should own them once more."

Cersei smiles, it would be quite enjoyable watching her little dove scream in horror as she realized she was being sold to her brother's murderer. It would be so entertaining, so fun to mock her with it, as she had mocked her about marrying Joffrey. The little bitch wasn't good enough for her son, and neither was that Tyrell whore.

"So what will you do, my lovely boy?" Cersei asks, "To start this alliance?"

"Ravens need to be sent," Joffrey decides, "To Pyle and to Winterfell. One for Balon and one for Theor."

"Theon, sweetling."

"His name matters little," Joffrey dismisses, "Lord Balon will wed the Heir of Pyke to Lady Sansa Stark, and they shall wed as soon as the heir arrives in the capital."


	5. Theon

**The Heir to Casterly Rock 5**

 **\- The Chamber of the Hand, King's Landing -**

"You say he sent two ravens?" Tywin asks, stoicly.

Pycelle, sitting in the chair on the other end of his desk, nods, "Yes, my lord."

"The contents?"

"He did not allow me to know," the maester explains, "and did not leave the rookery until they were sent off. I can say where they were being sent to: Pyke and Winterfell."

"They Greyjoys," Tywin growls, disgusted.

"Indeed, my lord, it seems King Joffrey is intent on rewarding them for the destruction of the Stark seat and the deaths of Rickon and Brandon Stark."

"It seems so, and unless the king is intent on gloating we will no doubt hear nothing of his plans until they come to fruition," Tywin sighs, it was like being Aerys's hand all over again. Only this time, he wasn't able to leave.

Pycelle nods sadly, "Unfortunately I believe we will hear much on his plans in the coming small council meetings, his Grace is not one to hide his thoughts."

 **\- The Small Council Chamber, King's Landing -**

Tywin sits patiently, waiting for the trouble no doubt about to brew. For the most part the meeting was progressing as usual: Varys revealing the state of the city and the movements of their enemies, Baelish discussing the coin troubles that Robert Baratheon had left them and Tyrion snarks at them before giving his own report.

From what his youngest said, the city was recovering. The addition of the Tyrell grain had stopped the city starving, and the future Queen was careful to show her face to the people. She was cultivating a persona that the people could love more than they could hate the King. If she was the gentle rose to his snarling rage, then the pair might make good rulers once the conflict was over.

The only snag was that the King was an imbecile. He was completely unable to curtail his desire for blood and the joy he found in its shedding, nor could he keep his mouth shut when pressed. Tyrion was the man to press, too, which made the response all the worse, "And what has you so smug?"

"Smug!?" Joffrey leaps to his feet, deeply insulted, "I am not smug, I am a king! I feel content, contrite, controlled, and confident!"

Oh gods, he was alliterating.

"And why are you so…. Confident?" Tyrion asks, now raising an eyebrow.

"I have gained us an ally," Joffrey proclaims, "with intelligence, tact, and even a fair bit of wit. Something you sorely lack, _imp._ "

"Oh, you would me, nephew!" Tyrion clutches his chest dramatically, "Almost as deeply as Ser Mandon did, even!"

"You dare mock me?"

"Mock? Never!" Tyrion takes a sip of his wine to hide his smirk, "Please, enlighten us, dear nephew."

"I've sent two ravens," The king begins, "One to Winterfell and the other to Pyke, both currently seats of the Greyjoys."

Tyrion pauses mid-sip, clearly not having expected such a reply. He slowly sets his goblet down, then gives his father a quick glance. The elder Lannister nods. He wants to know what plots the boy has come up with without his consent or knowledge.

"Why contact the Greyjoys?" The dwarf asks, "It isn't as though they make stalwart allies. The one in Winterfell murdered two children he saw as siblings."

"Pah!" Joffrey dismisses this, waving a hand negligently, "I care little for the cripple and the simpleton. They're as dead as their father and matter little."

"And what if they had been your brothers?" Tyrion asks, now angered for Sansa and Arya's sake, "Would you care so little?"

"Yes," Joffrey snorts, "But they aren't my brothers, they weren't even bugs to be crushed beneath my boot. Theon Greyjoy did me a great service when he killed them. He ensured the death of the Stark line! None will ever carry their traitorous name after Robb Stark tastes my blade."

"And what if his new wife were to carry a child?" Tyrion asks.

"Gut the cunt."

"Enough," Tywin declares, and the discussion ends. He turns a glare to Joffrey, tired of waiting for Tyrion to coax the plot from him with subtle mocking, "What did you promise the Greyjoys?"

"I promised them the Riverlands," Joffrey tells him, proud, "Bound to them through marriage."

"Marriage… you promised them Sansa Stark?" Tywin demands, now angry at potentially losing one of his few bargaining chips with the Starks.

"I promised her and her connection to Riverrun with it to the heir of House Greyjoy, should they come and bend the knee to me in person," Joffrey tells him.

"And you sent it to Pyke, why?"

"Theon Greyjoy was raised in Winterfell, who's to say if his father accepted him as heir," Joffrey shrugs, "With what I have done I have ensured that whether or not it is, I will still get the heir and we will gain a very useful ally."

"How could they ever be useful?" Tywin demands, his old loathing showing itself. Only one force had ever gotten the better of him, and it had been those damnable squids. They burnt his fleet and reduced the power he wielded significantly at the start of their failed rebellion. He was still working to rebuild its size and the commerce that came with it when the contemptible Catelyn Stark had stolen his son.

"The Greyjoys were the Riverkings in the time before Harren the Black," Joffrey tells him, "They ruled the waterways and I think that with how traitorous the Tullys have proven themselves to be we should look to better, more ancient Houses to rule there instead. Their entire line will be extinguished by the end of this conflict anyway, what does it matter?"

"The entire line?" Baelish asks, no doubt worried about Lady Catelyn, whom he had always held a deep love for. It had been what helped him put the dagger to Ned Stark's throat, the man had stolen what was rightfully his.

"Well, not Lady Arryn," Joffrey concedes, "She has proven that she does not follow her family's folly. Her reluctance to commit her forces to our cause is understandable, even."

"One doesn't betray their family easily," Tyrion snorts, "not as easily as ours does, at least."

"Out, all of you," Tywin stands, glaring. Eyes turn to him, and even Joffrey proves unwilling to face his anger, slinking out of the chamber after waiting to be the last out.

Tywin sighs and sits back down, angry at himself for losing his temper, Joffrey for committing such folly, and Tyrion for japing about his near demise. He rubs the bridge of his nose and wonders how many times he much clean up after the mistakes his children and their children would make.

"It's a good plan," comes the familiar voice of his cupbearer from behind his desk, hidden by several well placed ledgers as well as some other odds and ends. Arya Stark pulls the cover off of their shared meal and sets it to the side before pouring him a cup of wine and adding some to her own glass and watering it down, "He's a cunt, and I'll gut Theon before he touches Sansa, but it's smart."

"Indeed, but it is the worst form of smart," Tywin stands and moves to his desk as Arya exchanges seats for the one in front of it, "He fails to think of the Greyjoys, his foes, and even his allies as little more than numbers."

"Or pawns," Arya punctuates this by moving a piece on the cyvasse board between them.

He'd started teaching her how to play not long after they'd settled in Maegor's Holdfast. It had been like teaching Kevan to play all over again, though with more snark and talkback than he was used to. Arya caught onto the rules and understood how to play the game, now; she just didn't know how to win yet.

Tywin calmly claimed her piece and held it up, "Indeed, he does not think of their history, their thoughts, and what plans they may have. The closest he's come to thinking like them was believing Balon Greyjoy might not consider his son the heir."

Arya moves another piece, and asks, "So he hasn't thought of all of the factors?"

"He has not," Tywin agrees, shifting a pawn, "He does not contemplate who might be heir instead of Theon Greyjoy, for instance. Balon lost two sons of three in his failed rebellion and his only child left is a girl. His own brothers are unsuited for rule; Victorian is a soldier and a sailor who doesn't care for castle life or ruling, Aeron is a priest of their ridiculous god, and Euron was banished for raping Victorian's wife. None are ideal, and Balon sees himself as a king."

"He won't accept, then?" She asks.

"I believe he will," Tywin tells her, "but he will send the girl to be your sister's bride, a jest at our expense. It will force us to either break a promise made by the king or commit a blasphemy against the gods."

"Your gods," Arya corrects.

"Mm," Tywin glares at her, "you are unconcerned about your sister marrying a woman."

"Better than any of the men she's set her eyes on," Arya tells him, "anyone is better than Joffrey."

Tywin sighs, and realizes that the time of him coming to the boy's aid in his debates with the girl had ended. It was not a pleasant thought, to think so little of his own grandson as to agree with the sister of an enemy king.

"What would your sister think?" he asks, instead.

"As long as it isn't a Lannister, she'd marry a dog," Arya tells him, "I think Joffrey broke her."

"From what Tyrion has told me, he did."

Arya's jaw works behind closed lips, and Tywin knows that once more she must stop herself from swearing vengeance against the boy. While she plays out her internal battle, he takes a bite of his food. It is very good, and once more he is glad he had the Stark girl's fat companion added to his personal staff. He was close enough to execute if the need came, and until then he was a master chef compared to some of the others Tywin had working for him.

 **\- The Cells, Winterfell -**

"Oho, you have a letter!"

The voice cackles gleefully, and Theon Greyjoy tries to raise his head, but it doesn't move. Reek is what looks up, "Reek has a letter?"

"Indeed he does!" Reek's master smiles wide grin of the mad.

His master, Ramsey Snow, pats him convivially on the cheek as he walks past and Reek follows meekly. Theon had once been a proud boy, and an aspiring ironborn. But then he'd been sent to Winterfell and taken the keep, determined to pick his family legacy over the Starks. He'd betrayed the people that had raised him, befriended him, and treated him as a brother for the sake of glory and the iron price.

And then he'd lost the keep, betrayed by his own men so that they could survive. He'd been abandoned to the Boltons, and to the Bolton Bastard worst of all. Ramsey had taken great pleasure in breaking him in a dozen different ways, and in the end he wasn't really Theon Greyjoy anymore. He didn't have his pride, dignity, confidence, or even his insecurities. He didn't even have his manhood anymore.

Now Reek followed Ramsey like the loyal beast he was, slept with the dogs in the kennels, and barely spoke more than a grunt of agreement. Now he followed his master through Winterfell, up to the bastard's chambers. Reek opens the door for his master and closes it after entering behind the other man.

"Sit," Ramsey tells him, indicating one of the chairs at his table. Reek hesitantly sits, and waits for the ax to drop.

"As I said," the bastard sets an opened raven scroll in front of Reek, "you have a letter."

Reek reaches for the scroll slowly, his fingers inching forward until they grasp the parchment. He pulls it closer, and unfurls the text. He reads, silent, and can't quite comprehend what he's reading.

"Read it aloud," Ramsey orders.

" _To the Greyjoy Heir_ ," Reek chokes, " _I, Joffrey I of the House Baratheon, invite you to King's Landing so that I may thank you personally for your actions against House Stark and present you with a gift. The gift in question will be the hand of Lady Sansa Stark, to marry you upon your arrival and once you have bent the knee to me before the Iron Throne and sworn your forces to my cause against the false Kings Stannis Baratheon and Robb Stark. For your aid against these enemies and their allies, House Greyjoy will be given the Riverlands to rule and oversee, as they did in days past. Take up your posts once more, swear your loyalty to me, and you will have claim to that which rightfully belongs to you and your family._ "

"I think we're going on a trip," Ramsey tells Reek, "I think binding you to Lady Stark is a grand idea, don't you, Reek?"

 **\- Before the Seastone Chair, Pyke -**

"Is it a joke?" Asha Greyjoy tilts her head in confusion, handing the letter back to her father, "He can't be serious?"

"Oh, I think he is," Balon chuckles, "He thinks Theon's my heir, ha! Raised by Greenlanders? Never."

"So who is the heir?" Asha knew it was her, but it never hurt to ask.

"You, daft girl!" her father snaps, "You captain your own ship, you captured Moat Cailin in my name, you held it until your useless brother lost Winterfell! You've not disappointed me as he has and I can't give the chair to Aeron or Victorian, they'd lose us all the power I've given us in a day!"

Asha turned and walked to one of the large windows in the hall, working not to snap that Balon didn't have any power, had never really had any power. The Ironborn followed his dream, yes, but that was because he told them to do as they'd done for a thousand generations.

The men in her small fleet were better than that, and they knew it. She didn't ask them to raid, and they didn't feel the need to. They were sailors because the sea was in their blood and they could make due in any condition. Her men had been successful traders, working in her name across the narrow sea, before she'd called them back at her father's order.

Now Balon, the damned fool, was going to send her off to her death. She could tell, just by the amused tint to his voice as he rained praises on her accomplishments, that he wanted to send her to King's Landing to show the Lannisters how little the Ironborn thought of them.

"You'll go," Balon finally tells her, "make them rue the day they chose to mock the Ironborn!"

Asha sighs, and tries to think of a way out of this. Maybe it would be as simple as showing up and revealing that the Greyjoy heir was a woman. They might demand she bend the knee, but that was easy enough. Who gave a shit what knees were bent, really? Her father had stood up easily enough, and so could she once the time came.

 **\- The Stark Chambers, King's Landing -**

"He's offered me to Theon?" Sansa asks, cold bile rising in her throat.

Arya nods, and watches as her sister sits down slowly. The elder girl had dealt with a lot of pain, over the last year, but now that she was not the focus of Joffrey's ire or attention she'd thought she was in the clear. Now it seemed that he had merely been thinking of new ways to torture her.

He'd lost the ability to beat her, torment her, and parade her through the palace like a suckling pig about to be slaughtered. He had a new bride that demanded his attention, a Hand that he couldn't refuse, and new sycophants that he could demand adoration from.

So he was striking her in a way that he could manage. It was the king's right to arrange a marriage for his subjects, and even more so when that subject is a hostage. He could do nearly anything he wished to her, and it was only the intelligence of better and smarter men that had stayed his hand until this moment.

Now she was betrothed to Theon; the boy that she'd grown up with, played with as a child, shared jokes with, and who had murdered her younger brothers. Brandon and Rickon were dead at his hands, and there was nothing she could do.

Hands wrap around her as she breaks into sobs, trying and failing to fight back the floodgates. The damage was done, and water streamed slowly from her eyes as she wept for dreams long dead. She leans into Arya, her sister taking the weight and bearing them down into an uncomfortable slump on the duvet.

"It'll be alright," Arya tells her, the quiet calm of a summer snow, "If he touches you, I'll kill him."

"Another name to add to your list?" Sansa asks.

Arya doesn't say any more, just holds her sister as the elder girl calms down. Eventually, they push themselves back up and pull away. They stare out the window of their shared chamber, looking at the sea before them.

"I'm sorry," Arya tells her, "you don't deserve this."

"No," Sansa agrees, "But I don't think that matters anymore."

Arya looks at her, confused.

"It isn't about people deserving anything, here," Sansa tells her, "Here, it's about the game of thrones."

"The what?"

"All those people out there; Joffrey, Cersei, Margaery, and everyone else? They all want to sit on the throne, or get as close to it as possible," She wipes her eyes, "and father didn't understand the game. I don't understand the game."

Arya doesn't say anything, just leans her head against Sansa's arm. Sansa wraps the arm around her sister and then hug together as she keeps talking.

"The only one, I think, that understands the game, is you," Sansa tells her.

Arya smiles sadly, staring out into the blue waters, wondering if there was this much trouble on the other end of the world, "I think that's Tywin's doing."

"Not all of it," Sansa disagrees, "You saw through Joffrey, Cersei, and everyone else as soon as you me them. It took… everything that's happened, for me to see it."

"Whatever it means, it means we're together," Arya tells her, then she recalls what their father had once told her, " _When the snows fall and the white winds blow, the lone wolf dies but the pack survives._

"Father?" Sansa asks, recalling when he'd told her the poem.

Arya nods into her shoulder, "We're together, and we'll survive this."

"Yes," Sansa agrees, "We will."


	6. Cunning Men

**The Heir to Casterly Rock 6**

 **\- Maegor's Holdfast -**

Tommen wasn't the smartest boy in the world. He knew it, and he was pretty sure everyone else knew it. It was why he let other people do the planning for him, when he wanted things.

This helped explain why Arya Stark was helping him sneak through the castle towards the pantry. His mother had denied him his right to sweetbread, and he would have his sweetbread! Arya was the first person he found when he'd set off on his quest for confectionaries, and she'd told him that she knew the best baker in the castle.

He wasn't sure exactly what that meant until she explained that a baker made bread, then he realized that she was going to be treating him to a grand gift. He didn't get many gifts from children his own age, and she was only about a year older than he was, so she was practically his twin!

Plus they would be married when they were older, so he should get to know her and her friends.

"Why is he staring at me?" Hot Pie asks, trying to not to stare at the prince in return.

Arya rolls her eyes, and swings her legs from her place on the table, "I promised him that you were the best baker I know."

"Aren't I the only baker you know?"

"Exactly."

"That's mean, Arry," Hot Pie chides.

The Stark girl raises an eyebrow, "Does that mean I'm wrong?"

"No, it just means there might've been somebody better than me."

"Is there?"

Hot Pie looks down at the roaring oven and sighs, "No."

"See, don't be stupid, you're the only cook I know cause you're the best cook I know," Arya tells him, then a dark look passes over her face.

He knew that look, it came a went often enough that he'd learnt to read it quite well. It was the quiet and murderous glare into empty space that told him that the things she'd just said relies on the fact that the queen had murdered everyone she'd come to King's Landing with the first time she'd been in the city.

He hated that look. He also hated the way the prince was staring at him.

"Can you, say something?" he asks the small boy.

Tommen nods eagerly, but doesn't say anything.

"I meant, you… can talk, right?"

Tommen nods again.

"Can you please say something?"

"Something?" Tommen asks, wondering why the at boy wanted him to say it.

"Not some…" Hot Pie sighs, and drops the issue. He grabs the heavy gloves from beside Arya and puts them on, "It'll have to do."

"What're those for?" Arya asks.

"Picking up the bread."

"Cookies?" Tommen jumps up and rushes over.

"No!" Hot Pie nearly screams at the boy. He regrets it almost immediately, because the prince jerks to a halt. The child's eyes widen, his lip trembles, and he lets out an exaggerated scream as he starts to wail.

"Oh, why'd you go and do that!" Arya growls and stalks over to the boy, grabbing him by the shoulders, "Stop crying!"

"Bu-bu-but he yelled at m-m-me!" Tommen continues to wail, pointing an accusatory finger at Hot Pie.

"Yes, but that's cause you were being stupid," Arya tells him. Tommen blinks at her through a well of wet tears, now confused as to why she was being so mean as well. She points at Hot Pie, "See his gloves?"

"Uh-huh."

"Know why he has 'em on?" She asks.

"Uh-uh."

"Cause otherwise he gets hurt," She tells him, "And if you get close you get hurt. If you get hurt, he gets hurt."

"Huh?" Tommen blinks, not really understanding.

"Your mother, the queen, would have him executed."

The eyes of all three youngsters turn to the doorway out of the kitchens, where Tyrion Lannister's squire stands. The lad, a bit older than Hot Pie and around the same age as Gendry, directs their eyes down to his master.

The dwarf, visible only by the coif of his hair, strides through the empty kitchen and asks, "Now, sweet Tommen, what's got you so upset?"

"He yelled at me," the prince explains, not really accusing and more sullenly reporting the facts as he knows them.

"Ah, well, I think in this case it is you who owes the apology, dear nephew," Tyrion finally reveals himself by stepping past the last counter and smiles at all three, "After all, he was protecting you, like Pod does for me, isn't that right, Pod?"

"Yes, m'lord," Pod agrees, stepping up behind his small master and smiling at the three of them.

Arya lets go of Tommen's shoulders and steps back, "Lord Imp."

"Lady Maid," Tyrion nods, smiling. He then turns to Hot Pie, "It is actually good to see you awake, master chef, my father is working late and wants a late night snack."

"Yes, m'lord," Hot Pie nods, grabbing the hot tray from the oven and pulling it out to set on the counter, "Does he want his usual?"

"He didn't say."

Hot Pie nods, and sets off in the direction of the pantry. He pauses, though, because he really should warn them. Turning around, he sees all four of the others reaching for his recently baked sweetbread. They stop as he turns, looking at him, and he smiles and warns, "Carefully, the rolls'll still be hot."

Three of the hands pull away, then Tyrion pulls Tommen's hand away as well. The young prince begins to pout once more, but his uncle assures him, "you can have your roll in a few minutes."

"Why would Tywin send you down to order his food?" Arya asks.

"He didn't," Tyrion tells her, "he may hold more regard for most servants than he does for me, but he would never stoop to attacking my position as a Lannister and not a servant. He told a servant, but I was heading here anyway and relieved the fellow."

"I think he likes you," She tells him, "or… doesn't hate you."

"Truly?" Tyrion raises an eyebrow, poking at the rolls. Finding one that wasn't steaming as much as the others, he picks it up and hands it to Tommen, "I think that may be a sign that the hells are freezing over."

Arya snorts, and they watch Tommen happily munch on his roll. She smiles weakly, then asks, "Do you think Rickon would have been like him?"

"Rick-…. No, your brother seemed an eager sort," Tyrion tells her, trying and failing not to think of the evils that Sansa Stark's potential new groom had perpetrated, "I think he'd have been a strong lad."

"And Tommen isn't?" Arya baits.

Tyrion tugs the line, "My nephew is a hearty lad, and a happy one. I'm sorry that your brother didn't have a chance to be."

"Yeah," Arya closes her eyes, "So am I."

 **\- Harrenhall (under new management) -**

One of Arya's brothers, not quite the one she'd been thinking of, stares out the window of his chamber in the heart of Harrenhall, "Is it true?"

"As far as we can tell," Edmure, his uncle and the soon to be Lord of the Riverlands, tells him, "We don't have as many spies as the Lannisters, but we do have some."

"Who gave it to us?" the young king asks.

Edmure frowns, twitches his head, then holds out the scroll, "Petyr Baelish."

"Baelish!?" Robb grabs the scroll, neerly tearing It in his anger at the news, "How would he know… how would he dare?"

"He isn't in King's Landing, Robb," his mother tells him, "He's in the Eyre, trying to sway Lysa to our cause."

Robb looks down at the scroll, reading it.

 _My dearest friends, Catelyn and Edmure, it is with heavy heart that I must tell you that Joffrey Baratheon (who I am ever loyal to, of course) has made it his kingly duty to arrange Sansa's marriage. Now he has set her aside, she is without a good match, and he has arranged for her to wed the Heir to Pyke, be it Theon Greyjoy or another of Balon's choice._

 _Forever your friend, Petyr Baelish_

"Why would that clever little fucker send you something like this?" Robb turns his eyes to the Blackfish, Edmure's own uncle Brynden.

Catelyn turns to glare at him, "Because he still loves us!"

"He loves you," Edmure corrects, "He could barely stand me."

"Aye, and I thought his was an annoying little twat," Brynden agrees, "So why would he send it?"

"He's hoping it will force a reaction," Robb says, finally setting the letter on his desk, "He wants us to act without thinking, serving his master Tywin Lannister in a different way than he has in the past."

"Aye, it's clear which side he's on," Rickard Karstark agrees, "Man joined the Tyrells and the Lannisters, stole them right out from under us."

Robb nods, then he turns to the man, "Lord Karstark, you've been eager to see the Lannister's pay."

"Aye lad, I have," Rickard growls, and indeed the man had been braying for blood for weeks.

"And pay they shall," Robb nods. He'd been content to wait until matters were more stable, but if things were as they were, he could take advantage of the situation, "you and your forces are going to be marching for the Rock."

"Straight for Casterly Rock?" Rickard asks, not quite understanding.

"You're going to march your men slowly west, make yourself as tempting a target as possible," Robb tells him, "I'd been hoping to draw the Mountain west in his own time, so we could kill him for good. But you have been correct."

"I have?"

"I've been too soft," Robb looks down at the bustling keep below him and tells the lord, "Lord Bolton's Bastard has reclaimed Winterfell, even if the Ironborn have left it burnt. So, securing the North has begun."

"Aye, but how is sending me on a straight course through the Westerlands a good plan?"

"Because you will only be acting as the vanguard," Robb tells him, "Now that Winterfell is reclaimed, Lord Umber will march North and take back the rest. Lord Umber, I will send ravens to the Lords still in the North and order them to gather what Levies are left. With them, you will destroy the Ironborn still above the Neck."

"Again –"

"Lord Karstark," Robb glares at him, "You will be marching your forces at the slowest pace they can manage, armed to the teeth and ready for an attack. When you are attacked, and you will be attacked, the remaining forces led by Lady Mormont will close around them and you will crush them between you.

"A trap?"

"A mobile trap."

"Sorry I doubted you, boy."

"I am the King, Lord Karstark," Robb tells him, "And while I may be new to my station, I am learning swiftly.

As the two speak, Lord Bolton shifts in his seat. It didn't say much to the men and women within the room, as his gestures and facial expressions had less excitement than a glacier, but to any who knew him it was clear that he was not thinking very quickly on how to keep the North under his control. Thankfully for him, he had never allowed anyone to grow closely enough to himself to learn his moods.

The boy King was acting, which hadn't been planned. The foolish child had been content to sit in Riverrun, and now Harrenhall. He would soon be returning to Riverrun as well, which would have angered the men of the North far more expertly than any politicking the boy could ever botch. Now, though, he was leaving command of the armies in the hands of aged and respected men.

Lord Karstark was angry at the loss of his sons, but he wasn't stupid. The same could be said for Lord Umber and Lady Mormont, though obviously neither were as angry as Karstark. On the other hand, their separation from the Stark party could be very advantageous if he could keep the boy's assassination a plot committed by Lord Frey.

That wedding was the best opportunity to kill the King, his closest supporters, and most of the experience from the North in one fell swoop. He would merely need to ensure that he succeeded.

"Lord Bolton?"

He looks up, and he nods to the stupid boy, "Apologies, your grace, my thoughts were elsewhere."

"I hope they are here enough to know where you are to send your men."

Bolton goes back into the conversation he'd just been half-listening to, "My men are to bolster the eastern defense, yes?"

Robb nods, then he steps over to the map on his desk, "Your forces will station here at Harrenhall while I attend my grandfather's funeral. Once that is complete, I will return to here and you will begin a long siege of the Crownlands."

"A long siege, your grace?" Lord Bolton asks.

"Yes," Robb nods, then asks, "Were you there when my father relieved Storm's End at the finish of Robert's Rebellion?"

"Yes, your grace."

"Good, then you know the condition you found the Tyrell forces."

There is a laugh from Greatjon Umber, "Ha, those dumb cunts had their pants round their ankles!"

"Exactly," Robb nods in thanks to the other lord, and then turns back to Roose, "I don't want you caught like he was."

"Never, your grace," Roose agrees, "It would take a man of exceptional cunning to get the better of me."

 **\- Dorne -**

"An Ironborn, in my docks," the dockmaster wasn't against their kind, in general, but their presence usually led to a pick up in piracy. He sets a mug in front of the captain and asks, "I thought your wars were in the North, why come all this way south?"

Asha smiles, picking up the mug and taking a sip, "I'm set to marry."

"Oh, are you?" Marco, the dockmaster, had been an acquaintance and friendly ear to many captains that were stuck on his shores for the day while they resupplied, "And who is the lucky man?"

"That's just it, I don't think I will be marrying once they get a good look at me," She tells him, wiping a splash of wine from her chin.

"And why's that?"

"Because the King was being a right cunt and offered Lady Sansa Stark to the Heir of Pyke," She tells him, smirking as she takes another sip.

He chuckles, then barks out a laugh before asking, "I'd have thought he'd have asked for that brother you always wanted to meet."

"I did meet him," She tells him, "He's a daft little boy that's been captured."

"By who?"

"Boltons."

The blank look tells her he doesn't know who the Boltons are, or what their reputation is.

"Northern House, they like flaying people alive," She tells him, and the wince of sympathy he gives her is much appreciated.

"I'd have thought you'd be willing to go and help him," Marco notes, "You did sound like you wanted to know him last we talked."

"I did, and now I do," She tells him, "I was not very impressed, but there's little I can do."

"And why's that?"

"Father has ordered me to King's Landing, and as loyal as my men are, I can't count they'd be willing to argue with the Seastone chair while my father's ass is on it."

"They'd argue if it was someone else's ass?"

"For me? Yes."

"Good crew you've got, then."

"The best," She agrees.

"So, if you don't think they're going to give you the bride, why would you go?" It probably wouldn't get an answer, but the question needed asking.

Surprisingly, it does get an answer, "Because the islands need allies and despite what my father thinks we've got no future as nothing but raiders."

"I thought that was your favorite part?"

"The sea's my favorite part, the raiding keeps the men happy," She tells him, then waves the mug in her hand for a refill. As he does, she continues, "my crew has made more gold in the last three years with smuggling and honest trade than we did raiding in these parts. The Redwyns, Stannis Baratheon, and the Manderlys have more timber, more men, and more drive to keep us off their land than we do to get on it."

"So you're…?"

"Going to King's Landing to try and come up with some agreement with Tywin Lannister that helps the islands without making us give up who we are."

"What do you think he'll have you do?"

"Not a damned clue, but I hope he agrees to help me get my brother back."

"I thought you didn't –"

"My brother may be a daft fool, but he's still my brother."

 **\- White Harbor -**

Not much could be said about the men that stole one of the fastest ships in the harbor. Most that were on the docks that night were murdered, and those that survived could only really recall a rather maniacal smile accompanied by a terrible stench.

Suspicions were placed on the Ironborn that had managed to flee Winterfell as they burnt it to the ground, and none was cast upon the Boltons. Ramsey was rather proud of his work.

He knew his father was going to be angry with him for leaving the North, but the people were more concerned with killing the squids than anything else. On top of that, he'd left his men with strict orders and the threat of his hounds should they not be carried out to the letter.

Now he was a hundred miles from the shore, with a handful of men and Reek. On top of that, he was looking forward to a fun trip to King's Landing. From the stories he was sure that the King would have a very good laugh about the condition of Theon, and then they'd be great friends when his father murdered Robb Stark.

Turning to his men, and the captive sailors, he smiles like a shark, "Men, it seems we have a few days to reach King's Landing, doesn't it."

"Days!?" cries the former captain of the ship, "It'd take weeks, even with a willing crew!"

"Are you saying you aren't willing to help me on my delivery?"

"You're damned right I'm not!" The captain growls, then screams as Ramsey waves and one of his men stabs the man in the stomach.

"Such a shame," Ramsey sighs theatrically as the captain is thrown overboard. He looks to the rest of the sailors, "Unwilling, can you believe that?"

"completely unreasonable," agrees one of the smarter men, probably the first mate. Then he had to go and ruin it, "But, m'lord, the cap'n was right."

"Oh?" Ramsey raises a hand, ready to wave it down and bring death to this hapless man.

With a cringe, the man nods, "Aye, we need to watch for Baratheon Ships, find the wind, and avoid the eye of anyone that'd want to do us harm."

"And don't I want to do you harm?"

"Aye, I think so," The first mate looks warily to the Bolton man beside him, "But I don't think you're thinking of the same harm I am."

"And what kind are you talking about?"

"The kind where the ship is on fire, we're all either dead or slaves, and nobody hears anything about us till the end o' days."

"That is quite a lot of harm."

"So, m'lord, if you want to get to the capital not on fire, we'll need a few weeks to get you there," The first mate tells him.

"We'll give you…. Four weeks, I think," Ramsey nods to himself, "And for every day after that we're not there, I'll take something from one of you."

"Something?" the first mate, now captain, asks with terror.

"Drop your pants, Reek."

Once it was seen, it was very loudly decided that they would be rushing to the capital, and hopefully they'd make it to King's Landing with days and parts to spare.


	7. The Mountain and the Hound

**The Heir to Casterly Rock 7**

 **\- King's Landing, The Tower of the Hand -**

Tywin sips on his wine slowly, thinking of matters that he wished did not require his attention. Each day in the capital drew his mind in a new direction and forced him to turn his attention from more important matters to those that truly should never have arisen in the first place.

First was his grandson's ploy with the Greyjoys. The boy had a head for strategy, at least a small bit of him. He knew what mattered when it suited him. He knew that he could buy the Greyjoys if he promised them plunder aplenty, but he didn't see them for the men they were. Of their number, Tywin was willing to deal with two: Victorian and Asha. The man was like Kevan, willing to listen to intelligence and strong leadership. The girl, she was the better option thanks to the fact she had chosen not to be a pirate, a decision the captains under her had followed. He would deal with them, but no others.

The second problem to grace his attention was the situation with the Reach. The Tyrells were sweeping in and taking positions at court with the guile he'd come to know Lady Ollena to possess. He was both glad and terribly angry at this change. On the one hand, the sycophants that had populated the court were slowly being swept away as both he and the Queen of Thorns replaced them with more competent individuals. But every good thing comes with a downside, and that came with their attempts to subvert himself and his daughter in the ears of the King. He could forgive the latter, Cersei had been unable to rein the boy in for nearly a year. But he would have to think of some way to punish them for trying to rob him of all his work.

Third on his list of problems was the blacksmith boy that had accompanied the Stark girl. Gendry Waters, the bastard of Robert Baratheon according to Varys, was a hard-working lad that had little to no idea of his heritage. His continued survival was a favor to Arya, as he could not afford to antagonize her any more than his family already had. He could see the hatred that she held for his daughter and grandson, and there was a reason he never allowed her to be alone with either. No doubt all of his work would go to waste at the first opportunity she saw. Never the less, he had to find a way to deal with the bastard without upsetting the girl, a conundrum.

His final issue was closely related to his third, and that was the Stark girl and her family. Now he had plans for the child, and so he could not afford her hatred directed at himself. He was the Hand of the King, but he still found himself bending to the whims of a child, it was unbearable. Why did he give this child more of his attention than his own daughter? Why did he plan for her future? What drew him to the girl?

He knew the answer, though.

Arya Stark had refused to cower. He'd ridden into Harrenhall and she was the only one in the entire damned ruin that had refused to fall to her knees. Tywin Lannister respected strength, and this girl was build of it. At her core was a blade of fine steel, the edge being honed by the trials that were being thrown upon her. Had he not taken an interest as he had, she would have met a grisly demise for that defiance.

Now he knew her true name, which was unfortunate. He wondered what would have happened had his grandson not started this war? No doubt Stannis and Renly would still have begun their crusades. Eddard Stark, though, he could have been turned with sound reasoning and a logical argument. It was impossible to comprehend the mental acrobatics that would have led to the man assuming Cersei and Jaime had been participating in an incestuous affair. There must have been very compelling evidence lain against his children, but evidence can be fabricated.

Tywin gave little thought to his own actions at the start of the conflict, he had reacted justly when he sent his men to the Riverlands as retaliation for Tyrion's imprisonment. He would hear no words to the contrary.

Now the Starks were his greatest problem, and he couldn't just deal with them with a knife in the dark as he had planned. The girl would see to it that Tommen destroyed the Lannister name more effectively than if Tywin's father still lived. He could remove her, if he had to, but he doubted he would find anyone that would better advance the ideals of his house. His grandsons were idiots, though admittedly Tommen was less a fool than his elder brother, he was just a small child that had yet to face the difficulties of life.

How to deal with Robb Stark, then. His greatest and most pressing issue.

 **\- King's Landing, Small Council Chamber -**

"Why are you asking me?" Tyrion asks, raising an eyebrow.

"You've a head for strategy, if not the body for combat," Tywin tells him coldly.

The dwarf snorts and leans back in his chair. They were the only two in the small council chamber, waiting for the daily meeting to begin, "I would say the way to deal with him that would elicit the least bloodshed would be to give him Joffrey."

The Hand glares, "This is not the time for your japes."

"No, I suppose it isn't," Tyrion shakes his head, "The grievances they have against the king and our family are too great to forgive. Ned Stark was loved by the North, taking his head lost any chance we had at peace with them. Before that, though, you sent the Mountain into the Riverlands."

"You had been taken, this could not go unpunished."

"It could have, easily," Tyrion refutes, glaring at his father, "Sending him was a terrible idea, it lost us any chance of them giving up the fight."

Tywin returns the glare, "If Catelyn Tully thought she could take a member of House Lannister without retaliation, she needed to be corrected."

Rolling his eyes, the dwarf shakes his head, "I'm afraid to say that we're lost both kingdoms, father."

"Lost?" Tywin raises an eyebrow, "They will be brought to heel, as they should be."

"Not if you wish to keep the Stark girl alive. That is why you've asked me for assistance, isn't it?" The Hand of the King says nothing, but his son already knows that he is right, "I thought not. The only way to win the war and retain all seven kingdoms is to kill the Starks, but should you do that you lose the heir to Casterly Rock you've always wanted, don't you?"

"You presume much."

"I don't think I do. As much as I love Tommen, he is too soft hearted to be the Lord of Casterly Rock. Arya Stark, though, she is all sharp edges and would be a perfect replacement for yourself when you finally pass on."

Tywin glares again, "You assume Tommen is not strong enough to be the Lord of the Rock?"

"Not if you are who he has to follow," Tyrion replies, "You've left a reputation that can't be broken, not until the memory of you is dead and gone."

"I aim to live many years longer."

"Undoubtedly, and Tommen will need to grow a backbone in that time, but he doesn't have one now."

"Something easily rectified."

"You've clearly not spent much time with him," Tyrion frowns, "Less than you have with Lady Stark, to be sure. She is the heir you are training, not him. You wish to preserve the Starks so you can preserve the legacy of our house."

"Everything I do is to preserve the legacy of house Lannister."

"As you've said, many times," Tyrion sighs, and the sound of a door opening has him telling his father, "I will attempt to think of a way to solve the issue, as no doubt will you, but we will not have a solution soon."

"A solution to what?" Joffrey demands, the first to enter the chamber.

"The Greyjoy situation," Tywin tells him in a low growl.

The king sits in his throne, glaring at his Hand, "There is no Greyjoy situation. Their Heir will be arriving within the month and we will all watch as Sansa is happily wed!"

"And how do you know they will be arriving so soon?" Tyrion asks, though the shuffling figure entering the chamber gives him his answer as he asks it.

Pycelle bows to the Hand and king before taking his seat, two letters in hand, "Word from both Winterfell and Pike, my Lords. It seems that the Heir is on the way."

Tywin raises an eyebrow, "And you assume they refer to the same person?"

"Of course they do," Joffrey snaps as Varys slinks into the chamber, "There is only one heir, Theon Greyjoy!"

"Forgive me, your grace," Varys intrudes as he sits down, "but that is not… entirely accurate."

Joffrey turns to glare at him, "What?"

Varys blinks at him, then gives a soft smile and informs the council, "The laws of succession upon the iron islands as more interesting than they are on the mainland, your grace."

"Meaning?" Tyrion asks

"A true ironborn is a captain, most importantly of all," Varys explains, "Theon Greyjoy has never commanded a ship, and my little birds have told me that the sacking of Winterfell was with his father's men, not his own. By the standards of the ironborn, his sister is a more fitting heir than he."

"Sister?" Joffrey asks.

"Asha Greyjoy, your grace," the Spider tells him.

The King blinks at him for a few seconds, then lets out a hearty laugh. The small council exchange glances as the boy tries to rein himself in, eventually subsiding into giggles, "Oh dear, whatever shall we do?"

"We should call this mess off, your grace," Tywin councils, hoping to find that this is where the king will draw the line. He'd known of the girl, he'd even told the Stark girl of her. He knew that the two Starks knew that it was entirely possible that Sansa would be wed to a woman if the king didn't see reason.

"No!" Joffrey slices his hand through the air to punctuate the declaration, "I feel this proves even better. Either she will wed the man who slew her brothers, or she will wed a woman!"

"Either?" Tyrion asks, wondering if there was a way his eyebrow could be frozen in a raised position, as that seemed to be where it stayed for almost every interaction he had with Joffrey now he wasn't in charge of directly thwarting his madness.

"Yes, we'll let dear Sansa decide who she would rather wed," The kind laughs at his own joke, "I look forward to the ceremony!"

"You aim to wed two women?" Tywin asks, "The High Septon would never agree to this."

"What does his opinion matter?" Joffrey asks, "Lady Sansa prays to the old gods, and the ironborn have a god of their own to worship, do they not?"

"The drowned god," Tyrion supplies, thinking of his conversation with Varys some months ago and once again wondering why there were no gods of tits and wine closer to the shores of Westeros.

 **\- Harrenhall -**

Roose Bolton ate his lunch in silence, thinking. He'd received no word from Tywin Lannister over the last few weeks that would solidify their alliance. As such, he kept acting as the loyal northman he was meant to be. As a loyal northman, he'd had to report that his bastard son had left Winterfell to the king.

What was that stupid boy doing? According the ravens he'd received from his men, a letter had arrived for the Greyjoy and Ramsey had packed himself and his most loyal men, determined to act on some strange whim.

Robb Stark hadn't reacted in the way Roose had imagined he would, either. The lord had expected the anger of a child not being listened to, not the calm acceptance that had come. Stark was acting more and more the able commander, rather than the flailing boy he truly was. While his political blunders were still heavy enough that Roose could use them, the boy's military strategy had made it dangerous to do so.

The Northern Commanders had been spread out, and they would not be gathering at the Twins like Roose had believed they would. Roose himself wouldn't even be there, and as such he didn't think that Walder Frey would carry out their conspiracy.

If the fool did continue with their plot and murder the king, it would be easy to turn the realm against him and declare war. If it did happen, they would be able to sue for peace with the south, perhaps even calm the realm if all went well.

If Frey didn't kill the king, then Roose would still be a respected commander and Lord. All he needed to do was make sure Ramsey didn't do anything foolish before he had a bastard of his own. He needed an heir to carry the Bolton name into the future, and Domeric was dead. He missed his trueborn son, but did not allow himself to think on matters of the past for long.

What he did do, was plan his next move.

\- The Westerlands -

Rickard Karstark brought his sword up to block the swing of a blade from a Lannister man. The swords ringed as they connected, a sound echoing throughout the field as his and the Mountain's men fought their deadly game.

With an exhausted roar, Rickard pushes the blade away and slices at his attacker, the swing is parried away, but before the man can attack again, he is struck in the back of the head by a heavy mace. The man drops, reveal Dacey Mormont.

The two northerners nod to each other before slamming their backs into each other and looking for the next assault. They don't see one coming, and Rickard asks, "Where's your mother at?"

"She joined the battle on the other side of the field, these bastards were trying to flank you."

"Ha! I'd like to see them try!"

No more words are shared between them, as a roar draws their attention. Looking to the east, they see the massive figure of the Mountain, dwarfing other men around him as he works his way towards them. Neither could think of a reason for this, until an equally appalling roar echoes out from behind them, and they turn to see the snarling visage of a hound in time for it to barge past them.

Thrown to the ground, Karstark has to roll out of the way of a falling blade before he can get back to his feet. He nearly doesn't manage it, the only thing saving him being the Mormont warrior once again. His new attacker's arm is broken by her mace, and a stab from Rickard puts him down for good.

Both warriors turn their eyes briefly to the Mountain, and they freeze for a second. The Hound and the Mountain are fighting. The two massive men exchange blows that would fell any normal human in their mad bid to do each other in.

"What the hells is going on?" Rickard asks.

"No -Woah!" Dacey brings her shield up to block an incoming strike and retaliates. Trading blows with the new Lannister soldier isn't as easy as it was before, every turn of their bodies bringing one or the other around to view the fight between the Clegane brothers.

The fight, a battling of titans, is the stuff of legend. The Hound striking at his elder brother constantly, caring little for anything the Mountain throws at him in kind. Blood leaks from his toothy maw as he snarls insult after insult at his brother. The Mountain, more monster than man, takes everything that the Hound can throw at him with the same indifference, even swatting away northmen that try to take the Hound's side in the fight while still being able to defend himself.

The sounds of their blades smashing into each other shatters the battlefield, men pausing every few seconds from their own battles to watch. Men die in droves as they try to watch history being made. West or North, it matters little, men know when something momentous is happening so close to them, and slowly the battle fades into the back of reality while the Cleganes fight.

Their grievances against each other feel ancient and terrible, so great at the blows and poisonous the words. The Hound, mad and frothing blood from the maw of his helm, pauses not once for respite. He does not fight with strategy or skill, merely the determination to see his enemy dead.

The Mountain, never what one would call a master of strategy, weathers the blows like a man convinced of his own immortality. His armor protects him, near proving him right if it were not for the rivers of blood pouring from the cracks made from his mad brother.

In the end, their fight ends without ceremony, both drained near completely of blood and bile, they stare at each other exhausted and enraged. It takes not more than a few seconds of staring before one finally falls.

The Hound drops first, falling to his knees as he struggles to take in breath. Heavy dents in his breastplate show just how much a struggle that is. Still he does not take his glare from his brother, and the Mountain laughs.

That, more than anything, stops the battle dead. There is no greater and more terrible sound than the laughter of a monster. His deep, echoing, and booming enjoyment of this moment could be called sickening were it not so enthralling.

Taking off his helmet and throwing it aside, Gregor Clegane taunts his brother, "Thought you'd do me in, eh!?"

Sandor says nothing, merely stabbing his heavy greatsword into the earth and using it to rise off his knees. He trembles, and it is clear he is barely upon his feet.

"You'll die, brother!" The Mountain declares, "I heard the king wants your head! I think I'll give it to him!"

He roars with laughter again, then spins. Rickard Karstark tries to back out of his charge, having decided to rush the mountain while the man was distracted, but it proved a terrible folly. He has a moment to reflect on his poor choice before he reaches the Mountain, resolving to see this through to the end.

The Mountain catches the old man, roaring at him as well. Rickard tries to stab him, even as the Mountains right hand begins to choke the life from him. His arm is caught, Gregor smiling evilly down at the lord as he breaks it near in half with a twist.

Rickard screams in agony, drawing more breath from his rapidly dwindling supply. His legs kick as he is lifted off the ground, and he can do naught but watch as the Mountain takes the sword from his useless hand and aims it at his eye.

"No!" the cry comes from the Northern forces as the Mountain stabs the blade forward, spearing it through Rickard Karstark's head.

He looks about the battlefield as he slowly pulls the blade back out of the dead man's head, but he doesn't look behind him. This proves his fatal error. He hears the roar of his brother, feels the weight suddenly crashing into his back.

Rickard's corpse is thrown away as the Mountain is toppled to the ground by his brother, the Hound bringing his second sword up, and down in one swift motion. He doesn't get this final moment, though, as the Mountain rolls and throws the Hound's balance off.

The two Cleganes go tumbling, fighting for the sword, until finally the Mountain is atop his brother. Both roar in rage at each other, the Mountain raising the sword high to kill Sandor as he had the Karstark. But a blow strikes out and the sword is wrenched from his hand. Both Cleganes turn and watch Dacey Mormont's mace swing, smashing into the Mountain's head from the side, throwing the massive man off of his brother.

The Hound wastes no time, drawing the last of his blades, leaping from his prone position, and stabbing downward. The blade is caught near an inch from the Mountain's throat, the two brothers once more struggling.

But the mountain's arm cannot take the strain, not after the heavy strike from the mace, and it gives. There is a wet sound, and the Hound's sword bury's itself in Gregor Clegane's trachea. The Mountain chokes on his blood, and tries to push his brother off, but pulling his hands away from the blade only gives Sandor the chance to push it further in, until he reaches bone and even through that.

The Mountain died on a blood-stained field to his brother as the North and the West fought to the bitter end. It was not for hours that any thought to find them again, but eventually Dacey and her mother moved from paying their respects to the fallen Lord Karstark to the fallen Cleganes.

They found only one.


End file.
